get 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


a« 


\ 


IN    INDIA 


Translated  from  the  French 


ANDRE    CHEVRILLON 


WILLIAM    MARCHANT 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE  MERSHON   COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,   N.   J. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  AT  SEA,              i 

II.  CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.              .....  n 

III.  PONDICHERY.     CALCUTTA, 44 

IV.  THE  HIMALAYA.    DARJILING,       .        .        .        .  55 
V.  BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM,       .        .        .  73 

VI.  LUCKNOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA 155 

VII.  DELHI.    JAIPUR *       .  185 

VIII.  BOMBAY, 213 

IX.  ELLORA, 226 

X.  THE  VOYAGE, 240 


§1.3787 

UB  SETS 


IN  INDIA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AT   SEA. 

OFF  MASSOUAH,  November  3. 

FOR  three  days  we  have  been  going  straight 
toward  the  South,  and,  the  other  morning,  just  as 
the  faint  outline  of  Sinai  was  vanishing  upon  the 
horizon,  we  came  into  the  regions  of  excessive  heat. 
It  is  a  moist,  close  heat,  in  which  the  muscles  are 
relaxed,  the  whole  body  seems  melting  and  sinking 
away — a  heat  oppressive,  prostrating  by  night  as 
well  as  day.  At  times  one's  clothing  seems  to  burn 
the  skin  and  to  become  unendurable.  There  is  no 
going  below  for  meals :  all  day  long  we  lie  inert  in 
our  steamer-chairs.  A  double  tent  shuts  in  the 
deck,  completely  hiding  both  sea  and  sky;  and 
still,  the  eyes  become  inflamed  with  the  excess  of 
light. 

Coleridge's  weird  poem  of  the  "Ancient  Manner" 
comes  to  my  mind.  Thus  he  sailed,  oppressed  with 
a  strange  numbness,  a  kind  of  torpor,  that  cannot  be 
shaken  off.  There  is  not  the  slightest  breeze ;  our 
speed  outruns  the  light  wind  which  follows  in  our 


2  IN  INDIA. 

wake ;  the  fiery  air  is  heavy  and  motionless ;  we  are 
not  conscious  of  the  ship's  advance.  There  is  some- 
thing unnatural  about  a  sea  like  this ;  it  seems  under  a 
spell,  struck  by  a  malediction  ;  it  has  not  the  fluidity 
of  water.  Sometimes  a  glimpse  of  it  can  be  seen 
through  a  rent  in  the  canvas  shelter,  and  it  is  a  sheet 
of  molten  glass,  inert,  dense,  heavy;  nothing  could 
be  more  dismal  than  its  monotonous  glare  in  the 
sunlight.  At  a  distance  it  steams,  and  this  whitish, 
quivering  haze,  this  tremulous  fog,  shuts  us  in,  hid- 
ing the  sea  a  few  miles  away.  Beyond,  the  imagi- 
nation depicts  fiery  wildernesses,  terrific  solitudes 
void  of  all  life. 

By  night,  the  sensation  of  rapid  motion,  of  slip- 
ping away  into  some  unknown  world,  recurs.  The 
constellations  are  seen  to  be  leaving  their  familiar 
places.  In  each  twenty-four  hours  they  have  gone 
so  many  degrees  further  northward.  The  Great 
Bear  is  plunging  downward  to  the  horizon :  now 
he  has  lost  two,  now  three,  of  his  big  stars:  now 
he  is  gone  completely ;  and  in  front  of  us  rise,  spar- 
kling, the  four  points  of  the  Southern  Cross,  while 
slowly  the  great  belt  of  the  Milky  Way  is  pushed 
back. 

Lying  upon  the  deck,  which  by  night  seems 
deserted,  one  hears  the  incessant  rustling  of  the 
water;  looking  fixedly  at  the  stars,  you  feel  con- 
scious of  an  ascent  toward  the  equator,  of  a  going 
up  over  the  convexity  of  the  globe,  over  this  great 
dark  ball  that  hangs  in  space;  and  at  certain 
moments  you  seem  to  see  the  measured  movement 
of  the  heavenly  bodies — those  eternal  beacons, 


AT  SEA.  3 

millions  of  leagues  away,  in  inconceivable  depths  of 
space. 

One  o'clock,  A.  M.  The  mercury  stands  at  100°, 
and  still  it  is  a  moist  heat.  One  falls  into  a  strange 
drowsiness,  interrupted  by  feverish  awakenings, 
when  the  swarms  of  stars  that  appear  suddenly 
frighten  one.  Then  follows  heavy  sleep,  a  sinking 
away  into  black  darkness,  wherein  the  brain  gropes 
confusedly,  amid  flashes  of  sharp  pain  and  sudden 
swoons,  dropping  abruptly  off  into  unconsciousness, 
or,  again,  feebly  striving  against  the  crushing  torpor. 
After  this,  a  sort  of  fevered  excitement,  a  singular 
lucidity  of  mind,  crowds  of  recollections,  whole 
periods  of  life  appearing  entire;  and,  suddenly, 
around  you,  the  wondrous  tropical  night,  large  and 
luminous,  deep  blue  between  the  stars  which,  low 
on  the  horizon,  blaze  as  bright  as  in  the  zenith. 
Nor  is  the  sea  dark  now,  but  full  of  a  deep  light, 
illumined  in  its  depths  by  all  the  absorbed  sunshine 
of  the  day,  and  on  its  surface  by  countless  splashes 
of  starlight. 

Four  o'clock.  The  white  stellar  dust  overhead  is 
gone.  Only  the  great  stars  still  throb  with  a  pale 
light,  and  a  faint  rose  color  flushes  in  the  East,  so 
faint  one  can  but  just  see  it.  Suddenly  it  has  gone 
all  round  the  edge  of  the  sky,  like  some  pervasive 
fluid  of  infinite  tenuity,  melting  by  exquisite  grada- 
tions into  the  pallid  spaces  overhead.  The  blue  of 
the  sea  becomes  visible,  a  chaste,  dull,  neutral  blue, 
not  yet  touched  by  the  sun.  The  horizon  retreats, 
becomes  defined,  and  the  watery  space  broadens  in 
the  daylight. 


4  IN  INDIA. 

NOVEMBER  5. 

We  reached  Aden  last  night.  Awaking,  in  the 
morning,  the  coast  is  visible.  How  describe  it?  It 
is  a  negro  land,  nude  and  black,  under  a  blazing 
sun — a  huge  bank  of  coal,  rising  out  of  the  sea;  no 
vapor,  no  vegetation  softens  the  sharp  silhouette  of 
the  gloomy  volcanic  rocks  outlined  with  implacable 
hardness  against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Contrasted 
with  this  landscape  of  Erebus,  the  sea  again  seems 
liquid,  cool,  of  a  delicate  greenish  tint.  On  the  left 
lies  the  Arab  coast,  a  dazzling  white  wilderness, 
melting  in  the  distance  into  white  undulations  of  the 
heated  atmosphere. 

We  shall  be  off  again  almost  immediately,  and 
have  no  time  to  go  on  shore.  Looking  from  the 
deck,  I  see  upon  a  road  groups  of  superb  negroes 
draped  in  red — a  red  victorious  and  brutal  in  the 
sunlight,  flaming  against  the  blackness  of  the  land- 
scape ;  meagre,  withered  camels,  moving  their  slen- 
der, thick-lipped  heads  from  side  to  side  with  gentle, 
haughty  undulation;  files  of  little  Scriptural  asses; 
lastly,  two  English  soldiers  with  tennis  rackets. 
They  are  all  coming  down  toward  the  shore  on  a 
road  of  cinders  along  below  the  carbonized  rocks. 

On  our  deck  some  oily  Jews,  with  greedy,  piteous 
faces,  weep,  endeavoring  to  persuade  us  to  buy 
ostrich  feathers.  Invincibly  persistent,  they  cling 
to  us,  they  surround  us  with  their  timid  yet  eager 
gestures.  What  a  contrast  between  their  lamentable 
aspect,  as  of  whipped  dogs,  and  the  gayety  of  these 
supple  negro  boys  with  their  broad,  white  laugh ! 
The  well-developed,  active  bodies  are  lustrous  in  the 


AT  SEA.  5 

sunlight.  A  very  small  black  boy,  scarcely  a  five- 
year  old  baby,  with  irresistible  grimaces,  with  the 
graceful  clumsiness  of  a  young  kitten,  is  determined, 
at  all  hazards,  to  sell  me  an  old  East  India  Company 
rupee.  He  forces  it  into  my  hand,  and  the  touch 
of  the  little  paw,  dry  and  parchment-like,  reminds 
me  of  a  monkey's. 

We  throw  small  coins  into  the  water,  and  the 
whole  little  crowd  dive  for  them.  They  jump  off 
like  frogs,  their  heads  cleaving  the  lustrous  surface 
of  the  water,  and  the  eye  follows  the  black  kicking 
until  it  disappears  in  the  green  depths.  Other  boys 
paddle  around  the  ship,  astride  upon  tree-trunks, 
urging  themselves  on  with  a  smacking  of  the  lips 
and  with  strident  cries  like  the  chirping  of  crickets. 
They  are  the  offspring  of  the  sea,  rejoicing  in  life 
and  movement,  like  insects  hatched  in  the  sand  and 
hopping  about  upon  the  shore.  Now  and  then  a 
shark  snaps  one  up,  but  what  does  it  matter?  What 
matter  if  a  swallow  darts  upon  a  fly?  One  of  these 
children  has  had  an  arm  taken  off  by  a  snap  of  the 
powerful  jaws ;  you  find  yourself  wondering  that 
the  arm  has  not  grown  again,  like  a  lobster's 
claw. 

Four  English  ships,  arriving  last  night,  have  sailed 
again  immediately;  and  our  steamer,  long,  slender, 
lying  low  on  the  water,  its  two  raking  funnels  smok- 
ing all  the  time,  seems  like  a  runner  detained 
against  his  will,  eager  to  get  away,  impatient  to 
resume  his  race  and  arrive  on  the  farther  edge  of 
Japan ! 

At  nine  o'clock  I  hear  begin  that  motion  of  the 


6  IN  INDIA. 

screw  which  is  now  to  last  uninterruptedly  for  a 
week. 

NOVEMBER  6. 

Under  the  double  tent  the  evenings  are  disagree- 
able, with  stale  odors  of  tobacco,  of  cooking,  of  oil 
from  the  engine-room.  It  has  became  tiresome  to 
pace  the  deck  with  one's  fellow-passengers,  exchang- 
ing commonplaces  on  European  politics — this  is  to 
endure  all  the  boredom  of  civilized  life.  One  would 
gladly  escape  being  elbowed  by  this  crowd  moving 
about  under  the  electric  light,  like  any  crowd  in 
Hyde  Park  or  the  Champs-Elyse'es ;  tall,  correct 
Englishmen,  mindful  of  their  digestion,  and  at  this 
hour  making  the  fifth  mile  of  their  constitutional; 
French  functionaries  who  smoke,  leaning  against  the 
quarter-nettings;  yawning  loungers  extended  in 
steamer-chairs;  bare-legged  children  who  drive 
hoops,  while  their  mammas  embroider  or  read  the 
latest  novel.  From  the  ladies'  cabin  come  waltz- 
tunes,  as  of  hand-organs  in  London  or  Paris  streets: 
"The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube,"  or  "Sweet  Dream 
Faces,"  or  that  eternal  "Kathleen  Mavourneen," 
which,  with  all  its  foolish  sentimentality  of  words, 
has  the  irresistible  charm  of  an  old  French  chan- 
son— how  hackneyed  it  all  is!  And  yet  how  hard 
it  is  to  put  all  these  commonplace  things  com- 
pletely out  of  the  mind !  In  truth,  it  requires  a 
great  effort  of  the  imagination  to  grasp  the  strange 
reality  :  to  be  conscious  of  the  black  expanse  upon 
which  we  lie,  itself  moving  in  the  darkness  outside 
of  all  these  human  noises ;  the  ten  thousand  feet 
straight  down  between  us  and  the  submarine  ground 


AT  SEA.  7 

weighed  upon  by  this  black  watery  mass — these 
unknown  depths  where  things  have  remained  change- 
less through  eons. 

But  go  quite  aft,  and  put  your  head  out  from 
under  the  tent :  the  people  who  are  walking  the 
deck  disappear,  the  waltzes  cease,  the  Edison  light 
goes  out.  A  strong  wind  smites  you  in  the  face, 
taking  you  by  surprise.  At  first  you  see  nothing 
but  the  empty  blackness  of  space;  suddenly  the  tall 
masts  with  the  crossed  yards  lift  their  immense  geo- 
metric lines,  swaying  slowly  against  the  bright  stars 
and  the  swarming  cosmic  dust ;  a  pervasive  low 
noise  fills  the  darkness.  At  your  feet,  under  a  black 
whirl,  phosphorescent  masses,  bluish  globes,  fly,  and, 
beaten  madly  by  the  screw,  make  a  broad  milky 
path — a  great  undefined  furrow  in  the  darkness. 
And  you  feel  yourself  alone  upon  the  huge  thing 
which  is  running  blindly  on,  lost  in  the  night,  be- 
tween the  mystery  of  the  sea,  brooding  a  luminous 
life,  and  the  mystery  of  the  sky,  where  shine,  in 
whitish  patches,  suns  as  yet  unformed — between 
these  two  overwhelming  blacknesses  in  which  float, 
coming  one  knows  not  whence,  the  beginnings  of 
worlds,  and  the  beginnings  of  life. 

NOVEMBER  7. 

In  the  morning,  but  few  passengers  on  deck.  All 
day  long  the  ship  rolls  heavily :  she  lies  down  slowly 
to  starboard,  recovers,  lies  down  to  port,  and  her 
three  masts  describe  their  regular  oscillation  against 
the  sky.  The  huge  creature,  whose  dull  heart- 
throbs one  feels,  quivers  all  over,  exults  in  this 


8  IN  INDIA. 

slow,  mighty  movement,  in  this  profound  rhythmic 
oscillation,  in  this  going  forward  through  the  heavy 
blue  seas  which  lift  the  surface  in  vast  glassy  domes, 
in  all  this  disturbance  which  comes  to  us  from  the 
South,  from  the  great  watery  spaces  which  cover 
the  austral  hemisphere.  Separated  from  us  only 
by  the  bulwarks  there  is  a  liquid  tumult,  a  merry 
uproar  of  glittering  foam  falling  back  into  the  blue; 
there  is  a  flying  white  water-dust  spread  in  sheets, 
dazzling  with  light,  and  flying  backward  in  sinuous 
furrows  with  a  great  noise  as  of  tearing  silk. 

Beyond  is  the  immense  disk  of  the  sea,  of  a  mar- 
vellous blue,  and  on  the  starboard  side  burning  like 
molten  metal ;  the  barren  sea  burning  under  the 
fury  of  the  blazing  sun — the  lord  who  from  on  high 
devours  the  heavens  and  fills  all  space  with  his  shin- 
ing; only  an  infinite,  gloomy  splendor,  only  these 
brute  forces  of  heat  and  light,  only  these  eternal 
things  whose  indifference  crushes  us — and  no  life 
at  all,  for  the  little  flying-fish,  springing  back  and 
forth  over  the  angry  surface,  seem  but  flames  thrown 
out  from  it  like  arrows  of  white  fire. 

After  a  time  this  great  blaze  of  light  makes  one 
sad,  and  weighs  down  the  heart  with  an  extreme  de- 
pression. It  is  easy  to  understand  the  homesickness 
of  men  of  the  North  condemned  to  sail  these  South- 
ern seas.  Here  the  infinite  has  no  vague  gentle- 
ness, no  melancholy  charm,  alluring  and  tempting, 
no  subtle  sadness  whose  very  pang  is  a  pleasure.  It 
crushes  and  stupefies,  and  the  whole  being  sinks 
under  it,  incapable  of  any  effort  to  rally. 

As  one  thus  lies  inert,  a  whole   inner  world  of 


AT  SEA.  9 

memories  awakens ;  it  grows,  and  fills  the  mind.  It 
is  an  enfeebling  besetment,  but  one  has  not  strength 
to  fight  it  off;  it  is  a  half-dream,  very  simple,  yet 
weighted  heavily  with  emotion.  A  scene  appears 
as  through  a  mist  torn  apart,  then  closing  in  again : 
though  heavy  masses  of  foliage  falls  a  greenish  light, 
there  is  a  muddy  bit  of  road  between  patches  of 
yellow  broom ;  sad  little  trees  writhe  against  a  gray 
sky.  There  are  cottage-roofs,  lustrous,  wet  with 
rain.  Why  can  I  not  to-day  dispel  this  vision  of  a 
little  place  near  the  gloomy  harbor  of  Brest?  Still  I 
see  it.  The  place  is  not  far  from  Portsic.  There 
is  complete  solitude;  bare  fields,  sad  and  wintry, 
divided  into  wan  squares,  and  bounded  by  low,  black 
hedges.  The  wind  is  coming  up,  and  clouds  come 
with  it ;  they  rise  higher,  and  gradually  weave  a 
pallid  veil  over  the  sky.  Three  trees  graze  each 
other  with  their  slender  branches.  Behind  is  the 
Goulet ;  how  cold  and  gray  the  water,  fretted  by  a 
slight  ripple,  which  is  touched  at  one  point  by  a 
trembling  ray  of  pallid  sunlight !  This  ripple  frets 
the  stream  between  banks  the  color  of  rusted  iron. 
On  these  banks  not  a  detail,  not  an  accident  of  color, 
only  the  hard,  rough  outline.  There  is  a  profound 
sensation  of  melancholy,  bitter,  and  not  temporary, 
but  enduring.  These  rocks,  this  gorse,  this  stream, 
this  little  icy  wind — all  this  has  suffered  thus 
for  ever,  rigorously  and  patiently.  Long,  long 
has  this  gray  water  shivered  between  its  walls  of 
rusty  iron.  Presently,  something  strange  is  notice- 
able; upon  this  rough  promontory  of  rock,  high  up 
against  the  pale  sky,  there  is  what  seem  like  splashes 


10  IN  INDIA. 

and  trails  of  blood ;  there  are  reddish  lights,  mys- 
terious gleams,  motionless,  dismal.  Then  one  is 
aware  that  this  also  is  water,  but  infinitely  remote, 
as  in  another  world.  And  beyond  lies  darkness, 
ashen,  cold,  dense — where  a  distant  sea,  crimsoned 
by  an  invisible  sun,  fades  away,  vanishes,  ends — 
like  suffering  absorbed  in  nothingness. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CEYLON.      BUDDHISM. 

YESTERDAY,  between  two  games  of  quoits,  a  lit- 
tle English  girl,  pale  and  discontented-looking, 
promised  the  captain  a  smile,  if  we  should  reach 
Colombo  this  evening. 

The  captain  will  win  his  smile;  at  five  o'clock 
foggy  stains  appear  on  the  horizon  ;  about  six,  under 
a  lowering  sky,  heavy  with  great  violet-colored 
clouds,  a  grove  of  cocoanut  trees  becomes  visible. 
Drawing  nearer,  we  are  able  to  distinguish  a  host  of 
tall,  stiff,  slender  trunks,  bursting,  by  an  oblique 
impulse,  into  a  foliage  of  palm  leaves  above.  It  is 
a  vast  forest,  which  seems  to  rise  out  of  the  sea. 
Even  within  two  miles  of  land  it  is  impossible  to 
see  the  ground  :  there  is  only  the  dense  growth  upon 
it, — in  every  direction,  this  mighty  vegetation  over- 
flowing with  strength  and  sap, — the  great  equatorial 
vegetation  which  springs  out  of  ground  soaked  with 
rains,  and  spreads  wide  its  enormous  leaves  in  the 
furnace-heat  of  the  air. 

We  have  not  yet  reached  the  land,  and  still,  the 
sensation  of  this  equatorial  world  is  already  very 
distinct.  There  is  not  the  limpid,  liquid  blue  of  the 
classic  East.  Here,  both  sea  and  sky  are  violent, 
surcharged,  so  to  speak.  You  feel  that  this  is  a 


12  IN  INDIA. 

place  of  storms  and  typhoons,  a  region  situated  on 
the  girdle  of  the  globe,  looking  toward  a  hemisphere 
of  ocean — an  overwhelming  nature,  under  the  ver- 
tical sun. 

Meantime  the  sea  grows  dark;  there  are  flushes 
of  red  across  it,  and  spaces  of  undulation.  These 
disappear,  and  there  remains  only  a  dull  purplish 
lustre,  pulsating  under  the  tumultuous  sky.  Over- 
head, a  chaos  of  light  and  colors;  in  the  West,  a 
vague  radiance  of  a  soft  rose-tint ;  in  the  East, 
enormous  cloud-masses  rolling  up,  piling  themselves 
high,  then  breaking  down  into  fantastic  shapes,  in 
violets,  greens,  and  flaming  orange.  Then,  all  be- 
coming colorless,  there  remain  only  black  heaps, 
masses  of  gigantic  dead  shapes. 

But  the  heavy,  oily  water  still  gives  out  a  myste- 
rious light  which  projects  itself  into  the  wan  space. 
On  the  surface,  a  swarm  of  black  objects — crawling 
among  the  waves,  in  pirogues,  upon  gliding  trunks 
of  trees — gather  around  the  ship's  side  with  deafen- 
ing outcries.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  in  two  minutes' 
time,  all  this  disappears  into  the  night,  an  impene- 
trable, stifling  night,  later  filled  by  a  heavy,  violent, 
warm  rain. 

Having  landed,  I  can  see  nothing,  so  dense  is 
the  darkness.  Further  on,  by  the  gaslight,  I  con- 
jecture broad,  straight  avenues,  with  red  soil,  bor- 
dered by  great  gardens  and  palm-groves.  The 
heat,  endurable  upon  the  water,  is  overwhelming 
here.  The  air,  motionless  and  laden  with  the  dis- 
turbing perfume  of  invisible  flowers,  weighs  upon 
the  mute  city.  Figures  in  narrow  white  garments, 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  13 

moving  very  quickly,  bare-footed,  silent,  graze  us  in 
passing,  and  disappear.  This  is  altogether  a  new 
world,  very  different  from  the  East  as  we  know  it  in 
Egypt.  Yes,  one  is  very  far  away  from  home  in 
this  silence,  this  darkness,  these  heavy  perfumes, 
this  moist  heat. 

The  Oriental  Hotel  is  a  large  and  comfortable 
building.  The  proprietress,  a  most  correct  English- 
woman, instals  me,  giving  brief  orders  that  servants 
receive  with  silent  inclinations  of  the  head.  I  have 
a  great  whitewashed  room,  entirely  without  furni- 
ture, except  a  little  iron  bedstead  covered  with  a 
mosquito  netting,  and  a  deep  armchair  of  cool  straw, 
in  which  I  recline  during  the  silent,  oppressive 
hours;  on  the  ceiling  is  an  odd-looking  spot — a  lit- 
tle, motionless  lizard ;  then  two,  three  little  lizards, 
watching  me  with  very  sharp  eyes. 

In  the  long  corridors  crowds  of  Bengalese  and 
Cinhalese  servants,  slender  and  gentle-looking. 
They  glide  noiselessly,  with  timid  gestures,  very 
respectful  in  the  presence  of  the  tall,  solid  Euro- 
peans, the  handsome,  muscular  Englishmen,  who, 
in  evening  dress,  with  shining  white  shirt-fronts,  and 
the  air  of  superior  and  unapproachable  beings,  make 
their  way  into  the  great  dining  room. 

It  is  a  very  handsome  dining  room,  full  of  passing 
Europeans,  black  stains  in  the  white  Asiatic  crowd. 
It  is  like  a  great  restaurant,  situated  where  the  high- 
ways of  the  world  cross.  At  these  tables  are 
travellers  from  the  opposite  sides  of  the  globe;  pas- 
sengers on  the  Paramatta,  which  sails  to-morrow  for 
Australia  and  New  Zealand;  French  army  officers; 


14  IN  INDIA. 

passengers  on  the  Caledonian,  which  goes  on  to-night 
to  Singapore  and  Saigon ;  Chinese  on  their  way  to 
Europe;  English  civilians  going  out  to  administer 
India. 

Opposite  me  at  table,  four  Frenchmen,  rich  bour- 
geois, who,  having  had  enough  of  Scotland  and 
Switzerland,  are  on  the  way  to  Japan :  Parisians  by 
birth  and  race,  fldneurs  du  boulevard,  readers  of  the 
Figaro,  habitue's  of  the  Palais  Royal,  admirers  of 
M.  Sarcey,  republicans  and  liberals  after  the  school 
of  M.  Thiers;  one  a  laureate  of  the  Acade'mie  des 
Sciences  morales ;  all  four  typical  of  French  educa- 
tion, of  the  Lyce"e  and  I'Ecole  de  Droit,  and  of  the 
boulevard.  Two  of  them  are  well  versed  in  literature 
and  philosophy — the  philosophy  of  Victor  Hugo 
and  of  M.  Paul  Bert.  With  this,  a  raciness  some- 
what  cynical  but  brilliant,  a  clear  head  visibly  be- 
wildered, however,  at  sight  of  a  world  which  seems 
to  be  able  to  do  without  Paris.  A  third  is  more 
simple,  of  a  stronger  and  sturdier  growth,  more  san- 
guine and  rugged,  more  frankly  cheerful,  getting 
more  pleasure  out  of  life,  noisy,  and  "a  ladies'  man"  ; 
not  quite  so  much  the  epicure,  a  little  more  the 
glutton ;  precisely  M.  Zola's  representative  of  the 
middle  class,  the  plump  bourgeois  who,  seated  on  his 
hearth-rug,  digests  his  dinner.  There  they  are, 
flushed,  rapid  in  word  and  gesture.  Mobile  in  face, 
in  contrast  with  the  blond,  tranquil  Englishmen  and 
the  graceful  Cinhalese — two  of  them  agreeably  ex- 
cited, the  third  man  on  his  high  horse,  full-blown, 
expanded,  his  heart  open ;  happier,  more  jovial, 
more  simply  egotistical  than  ever.  He  cries: 


CE  YL  ON.    B  UDDHISM.  1 5 

"Bring  us  some  good  wine!"     And  the  party  drink 
champagne  from  goblets. 

Two  hundred  guests  are  at  dinner.  The  great 
punkahs  swing  slowly  back  and  forth  with  regular 
and  ample  sweep,  red,  between  high,  whitewashed 
walls.  Upon  the  lustrous  tablecloths  a  profusion  of 
blood-red  flowers ;  and  all  around  us  in  motion  a 
multitude  of  Cinhalese  servants,  very  serious,  very 
gentle,  a  yellow  shell  comb  at  the  top  of  the  chi- 
gnon, dark  in  their  narrow  white  garments,  mute, 
moving  noiselessly  on  naked  feet  among  the  tables 
with  their  floral  decorations  and  their  crowd  of 
guests. 

NOVEMBER  10. 

In  the  morning  we  walk  about  the  city — a  mar- 
vellous city  in  which  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
verdure,  the  plants  hiding  the  houses.  The  atmos- 
phere is  damp  and  very  hot,  and  penetrated  through 
and  through  with  moist  light. 

The  streets  are  the  avenues  of  a  vast  tropical  gar- 
den. Palm  trees,  ferns,  ebony  trees,  sandal-wood, 
cinnamon  trees,  camphor  trees,  pineapples — plants 
with  strong  sap ;  the  most  prized  hot-house  flowers 
are  at  home  here,  growing  without  cultivation ;  and 
all  this  vegetable  world  gives  out  a  strong,  heavy 
perfume.  You  feel  that  this  is  a  summer  which 
lasts  forever;  that  every  month  in  the  year,  without 
interruption,  the  dark  crests  of  the  great  cocoanut- 
palms  are  covered  with  their  heavy  fruit;  that  this 
red  soil  produces  incessantly,  that  it  is  always  bring- 
ing forth  these  swarms  of  great  flowers,  that  these 
trees  have  always  the  same  green  and  supple  mag- 


1 6  IN  INDIA. 

nificence.  They  crowd  each  other  and  are  all  en- 
tangled ;  there  is  not  a  suggestion  of  the  regular, 
slow  growth  of  European  trees.  These  cocoanut- 
palms  look  fresh  and  soft,  like  enormous  annuals : 
like  some  giant  cereal, — frail,  bending,  soaked  with 
sap, — which  has  grown  out  of  all  measure  in  a  hot 
night  of  June.  Some  spring  to  a  very  great  height, 
lifting  far  above  the  others,  with  a  flexible  curve,  a 
strong,  graceful  impulse,  their  lofty  crest  of  leaves, 
spread  wide  in  the  warm  atmosphere. 

And  the  red  road  goes  on  and  on,  between  lus- 
trous heaps  of  drooping  palms,  masses  of  dark  vege- 
tation, from  which  the  great  sword-like  leaves,  spring- 
ing out,  flash  with  green  light.  Here  and  there 
are  large  ponds  of  black  water — water  which  is 
almost  invisible,  so  distinctly  and  perfectly  is  the 
surrounding  vegetation  reflected  in  it.  Broad  bands 
of  pink  lotus  trail  over  this  water  and  seem  no 
more  real  than  the  green  of  the  palms'  reflection. 
Here  and  there,  gleaming  white,  far  within  a  fabu- 
lous garden,  some  handsome  villa,  crowned  with 
palm  trees — its  galleries,  verandas,  balustrades, 
steps,  all  loaded  with  enchanted  flowers.  Timid, 
frail,  the  Cinhalese  glide  past,  a  delicate,  gentle  race, 
with  masses  of  ebony-black  hair  worn  long  like  a 
woman's,  a  race  made  languid  by  perpetual  summer 
and  the  constant  moist  sunlight.  They  move 
slowly,  their  serious  and  tranquil  faces,  strangely 
exotic,  expressing  an  uncomprehended  soul — the 
soul  formed  by  this  world  so  remote  from  our  own. 

Going  by  train  to  Kandy,  on  the  way  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  Cinhalese  gentleman.  Very  civil- 


CEYLON,     BUDDHISM.  17 

ized,  this  gentleman — very  correct  in  his  tweed  coat 
with  a  gardenia  in  his  buttonhole,  only  his  legs  were 
sheathed  in  a  very  narrow  white  petticoat.  His 
physiognomy,  almost  European — like  an  Italian, 
but  more  delicate,  feminine,  and  sunburnt :  features, 
bony  and  salient;  a  strong  lustrous  beard,  black  and 
curly. 

After  fifteen  minutes  of  silence,  conversation  be- 
gins as  in  a  European  railway  carriage.  He  offers 
me  a  match  and  remarks  that  the  weather  is  very 
warm.  A  sentence  as  to  the  temperature  is,  in  Eng- 
lish countries,  the  indispensable  preliminary  rite  by 
which  human  beings  enter  into  communication  with 
each  other.  After  this,  in  a  few  very  definite  words, 
he  gives  me  information  concerning  the  population 
of  the  island,  its  government,  its  religions.  As  he 
talks,  I  feel  how  deep  is  here  the  English  stamp :  he 
speaks  the  language  with  singular  purity,  without 
the  least  accent.  He  is  a  Christian,  a  lawyer,  a 
member  of  the  legislative  council.  His  disdainful 
pity  for  "the  ignorance  and  idolatry"  of  the  poor 
Cinhalese  peasant  is  worthy  of  an  English  colonist. 
But,  in  fifty  years,  he  says,  all  this  will  be  changed ; 
the  railways  have  already  done  much  good ;  before 
them,  the  savage  country  retreats.  "At  Colombo, 
we  hope  to  found  a  great  university,  like  that  at 
Bombay  or  Benares,  and  later,  when  we  are  worthy 
of  it,  to  have  our  parliament — a  national  assembly 
elected  by  suffrage  of  various  grades;  all  this,  of 
course,  by  degrees,  and  without  separation  from  the 
great  British  Empire,  from  England,  to  whom  we 
owe  our  entrance  into  the  world  of  civilization." 


1 8  IN  INDIA, 

He  adds  that  he  is  "Aryan";  this  is  as  clear  and 
certain  to  him  as  it  is  certain  and  clear  to  me  that  I 
am  French,  consequently  he  esteems  himself  the 
equal  of  any  European ;  and  certainly  he  is  the 
superior  of  many  Europeans  in  intelligence,  educa- 
tion, and  manners. 

But  he  is  somewhat  too  English ;  it  is  too  evident 
that  to  him  the  Englishman  is  the  ideal  model  of 
humanity.  A  copy  so  perfect  is  not  natural.  And 
then  all  this  European  displays  swears  at  his  white 
petticoat  and  at  certain  Asiatic  hints  in  his  physi- 
ogomy.  Naturally,  one  prefers  the  Chinese  with  his 
pigtail  and  his  blue  robe,  to  the  Japanese  in  frock 
coat  and  Derby  hat.  One  is  distrustful  at  the 
astonishing  address  with  which  individuals  of  yellow 
or  black  skin  imitate  the  European  ;  and  cannot  but 
question  whether  the  imitation  goes  at  all  below  the 
surface,  whether  the  depths  do  not  still  remain  mys- 
teriously Mongol  or  Negro.  Certainly  this  man  does 
his  best  to  surprise  me,  with  his  air  of  knowing  the 
world,  his  stiff  manner,  the  nonchalant  slowness  of 
movement  with  which  he  takes  an  Egyptian  cigarette 
from  his  case  of  yellow  tortoise  shell. 

It  is  amusing,  this  little  railway  upon  which  my 
friend,  the  Cinhalese  lawyer,  counts  to  bring  civiliza- 
tion into  the  depths  of  the  palm  forests;  a  pretty 
plaything,  a  nice  little  toy  railway,  not  very  likely 
to  alarm  the  eternal  vegetation  of  the  equator.  The 
engine  burns  no  vile  black  coal,  but  fragrant  woods. 
We  glide  along  under  great  trees  whose  leafy  tops 
make  a  green  arch  above  the  track.  There  are 
charming  stations  which  have  but  slight  resemblance 


CE  \  TL  OAT.     B  UDDIIISM.  1 9 

to  a  French  gctre,  little  cabins  all  pink  and  blue  with 
climbing  flowers,  and  hidden  under  great  glossy 
shrubs.  There  is  no  restaurant,  but  slender,  bronzed 
eplicboi,  in  bright-colored  robes,  pass,  slow  and  smil- 
ing, holding  out  baskets  filled  with  pineapples,  man- 
goes, bananas  in  pink  clusters,  or  indeed  yellow 
young  cocoanuts  which  they  open  adroitly  with 
three  blows  of  a  hatchet,  that  you  may  drink  out  of 
the  nut  its  cool  and  perfumed  milk. 

We  pass  through  low  lands,  damp  under  the 
interminable  marshy  forest.  The  earth  is  a  vege- 
table slime  which  produces  unweariedly  these  mul- 
titudes of  great,  wild,  primitive  trees.  The  light 
never  strikes  through  them  ;  their  sombre  verdure 
reflects  itself  in  the  blackness  of  melancholy  pools 
of  water.  The  imprisoned  air  sleeps  heavily  among 
these  crowded  trunks.  Their  feet  in  the  tepid 
water,  their  heads  in  the  blazing  sunshine,  the  trees 
spring  out  of  a  thicket  of  colossal  brakes,  interwoven, 
gripped  fast  by  tropical  climbing  plants.  Within, 
one  may  conjecture  what  must  be  the  dense  hum- 
ming, and  the  furious  whirring,  of  myriads  of 
insects — the  violent,  primitive  life  as  of  the  first 
geologic  ages,  when,  after  the  great  rainy  periods, 
organic  life  came  out  of  the  ground  upon  the  sum- 
mons of  the  torrid  sun. 

We  cross  the  Kelanya  Ganga,  a  brown  river  flow- 
ing between  tall  green  bamboos;  then  follows  an  up 
grade,  and  almost  instantly  the  landscape  changes. 
We  emerge  at  last  from  the  oppressive  virgin  forest, 
and  enter  a  wild  garden,  intersected  with  cool,  open 
rice  swamps,  starred  with  flowers — the  fragrant 


20  IN  INDIA. 

flowers  of  the  champak  and  frangipani — a  garden  of 
delights,  where  rocks  repose  under  tall,  quivering 
ferns,  where  little  mossy  huts,  crouching  beneath  the 
Cinhalese  greenery,  are  almost  hidden  from  sight ; 
an  Eden,  where  parrots  cleave  the  air  like  arrows  of 
light,  and  great  butterflies  seem  flying  flames,  where 
the  trees  are  loaded  with  golden  fruit,  and  the  noble 
luminous  palms  hold  up  green  transparencies  against 
the  sky.  Sometimes  roads,  like  red  ribbons,  are 
seen,  amid  this  splendor  of  flowers;  and  a  peculiar 
warm  fragrance,  like  the  perfume  of  a  greenhouse, 
arises  from  the  purple  earth. 

Very  near  us,  as  AVC  pass,  half  hidden  by  a  curtain 
of  climbing  plants,  two  lofty,  dark  masses,  dull- 
colored  like  rock,  move,  and  I  perceive  two  ele- 
phants. Peaceful,  imperturbable,  their  great  heads 
drooping,  sweeping  the  ground  with  their  pendant 
trunks,  their  big  feet  spread  out  softly  in  the  red 
dust,  they  move  along  as  if  asleep,  cradling  with 
their  monotonous  motion  their  drivers,  who  seem 
also  sleeping.  Why  is  it  so  impressive,  the  sudden 
vision  of  these  monsters  framed  in  this  equatorial 
scenery?  Is  it  because  they  are  at  home  in  these 
thickets,  because  we  know  that  over  there,  beyond 
the  mountains,  their  kind  wander  at  liberty,  because 
they  make  part  of  this  world,  are  the  living  manifes- 
tation of  this  nature,  like  the  palm  trees? 

We  go  on  ascending,  now  along  the  edge  of  the 
rock,  making  a  circuit  around  steep  declivities.  At 
this  point  vegetation  is  tamer,  and  it  is  possible  for 
man  to  struggle  with  it :  the  plantations  of  coffee 
and  cocoa  begin.  We  are  now  on  the  edge  of  an 


CE  YL  ON.     B  UDDHISM.  2 1 

immense  amphitheatre,  sinking  beneath  us  to  a 
depth  of  several  thousand  feet,  clothed  with  palm 
trees  and  gigantic  ferns — a  misty  amphitheatre,  a 
shadowy  valley  which  traverses  half  the  island, 
extending  as  far  as  Colombo.  In  its  gloomy  depths 
there  are  the  same  primitive  damp  forests — those 
impenetrable  forests  from  which  comes  a  mysterious 
sound  of  life.  But  beyond,  across  this  valley,  the 
Cinhalese  mountains  lift  their  summits  to  the  sky, 
the  old  sacred  summits,  of  which  all  the  religions  of 
the  island  dream;  the  crests  of  barren  rock,  raised 
toward  the  sun,  victorious,  at  last  enfranchised  from 
the  weight  of  all  this  vegetation. 

We  reach  Kandy,  the  old  native  city,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  Cinhalese  kings.  The  Cinhalese  kings ! 
The  words  have  a  singular  charm.  Do  they  not 
evoke  an  impossible,  enchanting  fairyland,  a  little 
court,  all  fanciful  as  ever  poet  dreamed  of?  The  old 
palace  is  there,  on  the  edge  of  a  lake  of  black  water, 
under  tall  palm  trees. 

All  around  the  little  city,  sleeping  at  the  foot  of 
low  hills,  the  happy  roads  wander  among  flowers. 

Near  the  palace,  on  the  shore  of  the  black  lake, 
wherein  swans  mirror  their  white  splendor,  is  a  Bud- 
dhist temple,  an  old,  strange  temple,  somewhat 
Chinese  of  aspect,  with  its  conical  roofs,  its  rotund 
pavilions,  its  carved  balustrades,  its  doors  guarded 
by  monsters — a  grotesque,  outlandish  edifice,  all 
white  under  the  thick  shadow  of  the  trees.  I  know 
not  why  I  had  so  much  trouble  in  believing  that  this 
was  a  temple.  At  the  first  glance,  you  suspect,  you 
feel,  that  an  Egyptian  mosque  is  a  sacred  spot. 


22  IN  INDIA. 

But  the  Semitic  world  is  near  our  own,  and  inter- 
penetrates it.  This  Cinhalese  world  is  completely 
separate  from  us,  and  has  always  been  so.  It  is 
impossible  to  understand  it  by  sympathy,  to  dis- 
cover the  habitual  mental  condition  of  the  race 
which  reproduces  itself  under  these  palms,  whose 
vague  aspirations  are  expressed  by  these  architec- 
tural forms  and  by  daily  offerings  of  flowers  to  the 
smiling  Buddha. 

Whence  come  they,  and  what  do  they  signify, 
these  three  formidable  monsters  grimacing  upon  the 
portico?  And  of  what  are  they  thinking,  all  day 
long,  these  monks  who  wander  over  the  marble 
pavements?  Barefooted,  with  shaven  heads,  one 
bare  arm  emerging  from  the  great  yellow  robe  which 
drapes  them,  they  glide  along  the  passages;  there 
are  five  or  six,  going  noiselessly  past,  lighting  the 
inner  darkness  with  the  soft  gleam  of  their  saffron- 
colored  garments.  They  smile  mysteriously,  with 
a  gentle  seriousness  that  is  indescribable. 

The  monk  who  is  my  guide  conducts  me  into  the 
great  central  courtyard,  to  the  sacred  fig  tree  which 
consecrated  the  monastery.  It  is  a  scion  of  the 
tree  Bo,  which,  for  five  years,  sheltered  the  medita- 
tions of  the  divine  Sakya-Muni.  With  a  slow  bend 
of  the  head,  the  monk  gave  me  a  leaf  of  this  tree; 
at  the  moment  I  seemed  to  read  the  meaning  of  his 
face :  the  pallid  face  of  a  vegetarian,  quiet  and  re- 
fined, the  prominent  forehead,  the  intelligent,  close- 
shut  lips — yet  always  with  the  same  half-smile,  so 
serious  and  tranquil. 

Silent,  they  wander  among  perpetual  flowers,  in 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  23 

the  shadow  of  the  giant  bamboos,  fed  with  the  few 
grains  of  rice  that  they  receive  from  charity,  in  the 
cool  darkness  of  the  marble  corridors,  at  the  foot  of 
the  serene  image  of  the  great  Buddha :  very  differ- 
ent are  these  from  the  men  who,  at  this  moment, 
with  anxious  eyes  and  wrinkled  foreheads,  jostle 
each  other  in  the  fogs  of  Bond  Street,  or  on  the 
slippery  pavements  of  Paris. 

What  is  there  under  this  immutable  smile?  The 
Buddhist  priest,  Sri  Smangala,  superior  of  the  mon- 
astery of  Kandy,  a  very  wise  and  very  learned  man, 
who  is  interested  in  our  Europe,  and  has  the  opin- 
ion that,  with  their  positivism,  their  psychology, 
and  their  ethics,  our  thinkers  are  not  far  from  the 
doctrines  of  Buddha,  has  had  the  kindness  to  con- 
verse with  me  for  a  half  hour.  He  indicates  to  me 
certain  books,  and  gives  me  an  idea  of  the  life  of 
these  monks.  But,  after  all,  we  can  only  see  the 
outside;  it  is  impossible  to  penetrate  their  souls. 

There  are  two  classes  of  monks,  the  novices  (sa- 
manera)  or  mendicants,  properly  so  called;  and  the 
elders  (sramana),  those  who  can  control  their  wills. 
To  attain  the  mastery  over  one's  self,  which  is  the 
grand  aim,  the  monk  follows  the  precepts  laid  down 
in  the  Pittri  Mokkha,  the  oldest  of  the  sacred  books 
of  Buddhism,  which  is  admitted,  even  by  the  severest 
criticism,  to  date  from  the  year  350  B.  c. 

A  monk  is  allowed  to  possess  eight  things: 
three  robes,  a  girdle,  a  wooden  bowl  to  receive 
alms,  a  razor,  a  needle,  and  a  filter  to  remove  from 
what  he  drinks  the  particles  of  organic  matter, 
which  are  held  sacred,  because  they  have  life.  In 


24  IN  INDIA. 

the  monastery  all  the  minor  rules  concerning  this 
life  of  poverty  are  strictly  observed.  The  novice 
rises  before  daylight,  washes  his  garment,  sweeps 
the  corridors  of  the  temple  and  the  ground  around 
the  sacred  fig  tree,  then  draws  the  water  for  the 
day's  use,  and  filters  it.  He  then  withdraws  into  a 
solitary  place,  and  meditates ;  having  placed  flowers 
before  the  sacred  tree,  he  thinks  upon  the  virtues  of 
Buddha  and  upon  his  own  failings;  after  this,  he 
takes  his  bowl  and  accompanies  his  superior,  who 
goes  out  to  beg.  They  ask  for  nothing,  but  they 
stand  silently  before  the  door.  Returning,  the 
novice  washes  his  master's  feet,  washes  his  wooden 
bowl,  boils  his  rice;  and  thinks  upon  the  goodness 
and  charity  of  Buddha.  After  an  hour  he  lights  a 
lamp  and  begins  to  study,  copies  manuscripts,  or 
else,  perhaps,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  his  superior,  re- 
ceives instruction  from  him,  and  confesses  to  him 
the  faults  of  the  day. 

The  elder  monks,  enfranchised  from  manual  labor, 
give  more  time  to  meditation ;  not  to  prayer,  for 
the  Buddhist  does  not  invoke  aid  from  the  Divinity. 
To  escape  from  suffering,  he  depends  upon  himself 
only,  using  the  method  which  Spinoza  and  the 
Stoics  also  recommend,  namely,  to  forget  the  fleet- 
ing self  in  a  consideration  of  the  universe  of  exist- 
ences. This  universe  he  contemplates  in  five  medi- 
tations, of  which  the  first  is  called  Maitri-bhavana, 
or  reflection  upon  love.  Thinking  upon  all  crea- 
tures that  live,  and  reflecting  what  happiness 
would  be  his,  if  he  were  himself  free  from  all  sorrow, 
passion,  or  evil  desire,  he  wishes  to  all  beings  this 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  25 

felicity.  Then,  toward  his  enemies,  remembering 
only  their  good  actions,  he  strives  in  all  sincerity  to 
wish  them  the  same  happiness  that  he  would  desire 
for  himself. 

The  second  meditation  (Karuna-bhavand)  is  that 
of  pity.  Thinking  of  all  beings  who  suffer,  and  en- 
deavoring to  conceive  their  sufferings,  he  seeks  to 
awaken  in  himself  the  grief  that  others  feel,  and  to 
have  sincere  pity  for  them. 

The  third  is  the  meditation  upon  joy  (Mudita- 
bhavana).  Thinking  of  all  people  who  are  happy, 
or  believe  themselves  to  be  so,  the  monk  represents 
to  himself  the  happiness  of  others,  and  rejoices  in 
their  joy. 

The  fourth  meditation  (Asubha-bhavand)  is  upon 
impurity.  Thinking  upon  the  wickedness  and  the 
pollution  of  the  body,  the  monk  says  to  himself 
that  this  is  all  fugitive  as  the  foam  of  the  sea,  that 
all  this  exists  only  from  the  alternating  succession 
of  births  and  deaths,  and  that  this  succession  is  only 
an  appearance. 

Lastly,  comes  the  meditation  upon  serenity  (JJpek* 
sha-bliavana).  Thinking  of  all  things  that  are 
esteemed  to  be  good  or  to  be  evil,  and  that  are 
evanescent :  power,  and  dependence  ;  love,  and  hate ; 
wealth,  and  poverty;  fame,  and  ignominy;  youth 
and  beauty,  old  age  and  disease ; — he  contemplates 
them  all  with  invincible  indifference,  with  absolute 
serenity. 

There  are  in  this  monastery  a  hundred  and  twenty 
monks;  it  is  a  learned,  and  morever,  a  legal  institu- 
tion, respected  as,  in  old  times  some  great  abbey, 


26  IN  INDIA. 

Citeaux  or  St.  Germain,  with  us.  I  visited  the 
library,  a  quiet  hall  with  a  domed  roof,  where  the 
palm  leaf  manuscripts  are  kept,  enveloped  in  linen. 
In  a  corner  some  Japanese  novices — pilgrims  and 
students  from  the  other  end  of  the  Buddhist  world — 
were  reading.  I  was  shown  a  beautiful  red  book, 
containing  three  pitakas,  or  sacred  writings,  from  the 
Buddhists  of  the  South.  On  the  first  page  were 
these  words: 

"  To  the  very  reverend  Sri  Weligania,  Superior  of 
the  Monastery  of  Kandy,  in  token  of  respect, 

"EDWARD,  PRINCE  OF  WALES." 

About  five  o'clock  the  heat  of  the  sun  has  abated. 
I  quit  the  temple,  eager  to  lose  myself  in  this  equa- 
torial nature.  Nature  is  the  one  thing  to  be  seen 
here,  and,  in  the  presence  of  her  grandeur,  men  and 
customs  fail  to  interest.  Whence  comes  this  all- 
powerful  attraction?  Is  it  because  our  remote 
ancestors,  the  first  beings  who  had  the  human  form, 
made  their  appearance  in  a  world  like  this,  when  the 
continents  were  covered  by  all  this  tropical  growth? 
Is  it  that  their  instincts,  asleep  for  centuries,  awaken 
in  us,  at  sight  of  things  which  were  familiar  to  them? 

I  follow  a  deserted  road,  between  hedges  starry 
with  blue,  yellow,  and  red  flowers — enormous,  splen- 
did flowers,  with  stiff,  satiny  petals,  growing  wild 
here,  but  more  magnificent  than  a  king's  conserva- 
tories could  show.  And  out  of  this  sumptuous  par- 
terre spring  tall,  supple  stems,  caoutchouc,  Chinese 
bamboo,  with  palm  leaves  ten  feet  long.  At  the 


CE  YL  ON.     B  UDDHISM.  2  7 

left,  below  the  road,  a  grove  of  cocoanut  trees  ex- 
tends down  the  hill,  and  the  straight,  close-crowded 
stems,  each  crowned  with  its  great  cluster  of  stiff 
leaves,  is  like  an  army  of  young  men,  lordly  and 
primitive,  their  heads  bristling  with  great  savage 
plumes.  They  are  there  by  thousands,  the  axils  of 
their  branches  laden  with  young  cocoanuts,  which 
must  be  very  tender  and  cool  to  eat.  Nothing  gives 
a  better  idea  of  force  than  the  way  these  rigid, 
parallel  columns  spring  up  into  the  air.  The  vio- 
lence of  the  organizing  power  which  raised  them  out 
of  the  soil,  the  suction  of  earth  and  water  by  their 
roots,  the  swarming  multitudes  of  them  brought 
forth  in  this  tropical  heat — all  this  is  very  impressive 
to  the  imagination.  Other  trees  are  loaded  with  a 
green  scaly  fruit,  as  large  as  one's  head  ;  this,  I  recog- 
nize as  the  breadfruit.  Here  are  also  mango  trees, 
the  nutmeg,  the  cinnamon,  the  mahogany  tree,  im- 
penetrable thickets  of  unknown  essences,  whence  rise 
in  sheaves  twenty  kinds  of  palm  trees,  not  stiff,  soli- 
tary, dusty,  like  the  Egyptian  palm,  but  supple, 
glossy,  grassy — these  children  of  the  humid  equator. 
You  have  but  to  step  on  the  green  grass  along  the 
roadside,  and  at  once  it  curls  up,  withers,  grows 
yellow  in  great  spots.  This  intensity  of  vegetable 
life  is  something  marvellous.  It  quivers  in  these 
sensitive  plants ;  it  stiffens  in  these  tropical  creepers, 
which  drop  from  the  highest  tree-tops  to  the  ground 
in  tight-stretched  curtains  of  green ;  it  blazes  in 
these  scarlet  leaves,  and  in  the  gleam  of  poisonous 
flowers  amid  the  verdure.  Amid  all  this  vegetation 
run  mad,  the  red  road  goes  on.  Below,  among  the 


28  IN  INDIA. 

pillared  cocoanut-palms,  here  and  there  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  broad  yellow  river  running  with  great 
rapidity ;  and  in  the  distance,  northward,  drowned 
in  a  tide  of  grayish  clouds,  is  the  vapory  outline  of 
mountains.  This  is  the  virgin  land  of  Ceylon,  where 
still  roam  the  wild  elephant,  akin  to  the  vanished 
mastodon,  and  the  Veddah,  the  last  survivor  of  the 
prehistoric  man. 

Some  Cinhalese  go  by — the  men  wearing  the  long 
skirt,  girt  about  the  waist,  the  rest  of  the  figure 
nude,  the  hair  fastened  up  in  a  knot,  slender  and 
bronzed ;  the  women,  gracefully  draped,  with  lifted 
arm  half-bent,  shelter  the  head  by  a  great  stiff  leaf 
used  as  a  parasol.  One,  a  Greek  torso,  with  Aryan 
features,  her  bronze  skin  lustreless  against  the 
crimson  of  her  short  drawers,  carries  a  jar  upon  her 
shoulder. 

A  family  returning  from  hunting  go  by  in  Indian 
file.  At  its  head  a  man,  in  red  skirt,  a  long,  slender 
gun  in  his  hand,  walks  with  short,  timid  steps.  The 
woman  follows  him.  Behind  trot  two  little  boys, 
quite  naked,  very  frail-looking,  and  one  holds  the 
spoils  by  its  claw — a  poor  little  yellow  parrot,  whose 
pretty  head  hangs  down,  the  eyes  closed  in  death.  It 
is  a  happy  and  peaceful  population  which  lives  under 
these  lofty  palms,  finding  food  at  hand  in  the  cocoa- 
nut  and  the  bread  fruit.  A  family  possesses  a 
cocoanut  grove:  they  live  in  its  shelter;  they  live 
upon  its  fruit.  They  go  half-clad,  graceful  and  slow 
of  motion,  smiling  as  you  pass  them,  perpetually 
combing  their  hair  with  a  comb  of  yellow  tortoise 
shell.  At  every  fountain  basin,  the  bathers  are 


CE  YL  ON.     B  UDDHISM.  2  9 

sporting  in  the  water,  or  lounging  under  the  trees  in 
the  green  shadow  of  the  foliage.  A  happy  race, 
an  idle  existence;  they  are  Tennyson's  lotus-eaters. 
Their  religion  is  worthy  of  themselves,  simple  and 
calm.  It  does  not  lead  to  passionate  emotions,  like 
Christianity ;  nor  to  overwhelming  metaphysical 
meditations,  tyrannical  rites,  and  foolish  ceremonies, 
like  the  Indian  Brahmanism.  Without  doubt,  there 
is  in  Buddhism  much  high  metaphysics  with  which 
the  Cinhalese  priests  are  familiar;  but  they  do 
not  worry  the  people  with  this.  To  live  peaceably, 
and  in  the  evening  to  come  and  bow  before  the 
smiling  Buddha,  and  throw  at  his  feet  the  great 
flowers  of  the  frangipani :  their  religion  requires  noth- 
ing of  them — nothing  more  than  this.  Man  is  very 
gentle  here,  very  languid,  dominated  by  this  over- 
whelming nature,  by  the  fiery  sunshine  and  the  over- 
flowing vegetation.  He  makes  no  revolt,  no  struggle 
against  the  uncaring  or  rival  development  of  the 
inanimate  around  him.  There  is  no  tragic  conflict, 
no  "struggle  for  existence,"  none  of  that  manifes- 
tation of  the  human  will  by  which  man  asserts  his 
supremacy  and  takes  his  place  as  a  force,  in  the 
presence  of  the  forces  of  the  material  world.  Here 
all  destinies  are  alike;  they  all  live  here  among  the 
flowers,  feebler  than  they,  half  asleep  in  the  warm 
air  and  the  enervating  perfume. 

At  last,  the  road  turns,  and  leads  back  to  the 
town,  lying  along  the  edge  of  an  immense  plateau, 
and  always  under  the  shadow  of  enormous  trees. 
On  one  side,  a  dense,  shadowy  jungle,  where  mon- 
keys abound ;  on  the  left,  the  misty  valley,  termi- 


30  IN  INDIA. 

nating  in  the  far  distance  with  phantom  outlines  of 
mountain  crests  and  peaks.  And  now,  suddenly, 
without  any  twilight,  night  comes  on ;  and  forests 
and  horizons  alike  disappear  in  the  sudden  darkness, 
like  some  luminous  dream  which  melts  away  all  at 
once. 

Now  the  equatorial  stars  come  out.  There  is  a 
great  silence,  with  a  few  plaintive  sounds  out  of  the 
invisible  forests,  and  the  buzzing  of  insects.  Mo- 
ments like  these  are  loaded  with  an  indescribable, 
pleasurable  melancholy;  certain  successions  of 
sounds  make  the  heart  heavy,  one  knows  not  why; 
traverse  the  soul  with  a  strange,  deep  thrill.  Sud- 
denly, one  feels  so  remote,  so  lost,  in  the  indifferent 
tranquillity  of  nature !  One  feels  himself  detached 
from  the  group  to  which  a  human  being  belongs: 
his  country,  friends,  family;  the  illusion  that  life 
makes  to  each  of  us  is  unmade,  and  the  man  stands 
alone,  a  creature  for  a  moment  flung  out  of  the 
darkness  and  driven  hither  and  thither  upon  the 
surface  of  the  incomprehensible. 

Millions  of  stars — stars  that  seem  alive — quiver 
in  the  spaces  overhead.  Below,  the  silent  silhou- 
ettes, the  giant  phantoms  of  great  ferns  and  unfa- 
miliar trees,  seem  like  a  dream.  The  air  is  full  of 
the  humming  of  the  great  tropical  insects.  Fire- 
flies flit  in  the  darkness,  and  you  turn  your  head  to 
listen,  as  you  catch  a  far-distant,  almost  impercep- 
tible, sound  of  barbaric  music,  a  strangely  rhythmed 
noise  of  trumpets  and  gongs  telling  of  an  offering  of 
flowers  in  some  temple  in  a  remote  village. 

As  I  draw  near  Kandy  the  road  becomes  popu- 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  31 

lous.  Men  and  women  are  crowding  into  the  town. 
From  afar,  in  the  silence,  the  singular  Buddhist 
chant  calls  them  across  the  jungles,  and  they  come 
from  their  remote  little  dwellings,  scattered  in  the 
thickets  under  the  tall  palm  trees. 

Moving  rapidly  among  the  silent  bands  of  the 
flower-laden  worshippers,  I  cross  the  city,  almost 
invisible  in  the  dense  darkness.  There  is  no  other 
sound  than  the  throbbing  of  the  gongs  which  fills 
the  air.  Beside  the  black  lake,  upon  the  great  por- 
tico, the  three  monsters  are  always  watching,  and 
the  entrance  to  the  gardens  is  guarded  by  priests, 
who  silently  receive  the  offerings.  Passing  under  a 
silver  grating,  we  come  into  the  darkness  of  a  great 
hall,  where  small  sacred  lamps  throw  mysterious 
gleams.  Perfumes  arise  from  a  hundred  censors  and 
spread  in  bluish  clouds,  which  hang  motionless  over- 
head ;  and  this  heavy,  stupefying  incense  gives  to 
the  scene  a  certain  unreality  and  character  as  of  a 
dream.  Here  and  there,  half  visible  in  the  obscur- 
ity, there  are  formidable  silhouettes  of  enormous 
Buddhas,  Buddhas  sitting,  Buddhas  reposing,  in  the 
midst  of  flowers. 

We  ascend  a  dark  staircase;  on  either  side  are 
obscure  frescos  of  demons  confusedly  struggling 
amid  flames;  above,  standing  behind  a  silver  balus- 
trade, priests  receive  the  flowers  which  the  worship- 
pers lay  upon  a  large  table.  In  front  of  this  silent 
multitude  a  very  handsome  youth  stands  motion- 
less, his  arms  filled  with  a  great  heap  of  fragrant 
jasmine.  He  offers  the  flowers,  then  bows  sev- 
eral times  before  the  image,  and  then  stands,  half 


32  IN  INDIA. 

bending  forward,  his  hands  crossed  on  his  breast, 
smiling,  with  his  beautiful  curved  lips  and  long, 
lustrous  eyes,  a  strange  smile,  mystic  and  wild. 
There  is  an  oppressive  silence,  suddenly  broken  by 
the  deep  vibration  of  the  tom-tom  and  trumpet,  and 
the  Asiatic  chant  rising  from  below.  In  the  faint 
light  of  the  sacred  lamps,  the  priests,  indistinct, 
silent,  standing  behind  the  flowers,  are  solemn  and 
hieratic.  To  see  this  serious,  effeminate  crowd, 
thus  moving  about  in  the  dim,  perfumed  vapor,  to 
see  them  slowly  perform  the  prescribed  gestures  of 
the  rite,  seems  like  some  consecrated  mystery  of 
remote  ages,  some  Eleusinian  initiation. 

Quite  in  the  background,  in  a  solitary  tabernacle 
behind  the  priests,  an  inviolate  retreat,  a  great  figure 
of  crystal,  vague  in  outline,  casting  no  shadow,  sits, 
with  crossed  legs.  And  its  transparency  seems  as 
that  of  a  phantom,  a  pure  spirit,  enfranchised  from 
matter;  this  is  a  symbolic  image  of  him  who,  by 
the  intensity  of  his  meditation,  breaks  the  bonds  of 
flesh  and  of  desire.  Dominating  the  crowd,  he 
seems  superior  to  the  restlessness  of  humanity,  and 
the  eternal  smile  of  his  translucent  lips  tells  he  has 
entered  into  eternal  peace. 

The  more  I  observe  this  country  and  these  men, 
the  better  I  understand,  it  seems  to  me,  this  religion 
and  this  system  of  ethics.  The  point  of  departure 
is  in  the  human  being,  the  fatigue:  the  crushing 
load,  an  immense  need  of  rest  and  quietude,  in  pres- 
ence of  natural  phenomena  that  are  so  violent,  dis- 
proportionate, and  full  of  change,  where  all  visible 
things  undergo  incessant  renewal,  are  forever  spring- 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  33 

ing  into  existence  and  forever  perishing.  What  is 
said  to-day  by  our  great  European  thinkers  has 
been  taught  by  the  Buddhist  sages  for  the  last  three 
centuries.  Nothing  is,  they  say ;  all  becomes ;  the 
world  is  but  a  current  of  ephemeral  appearances; 
there  is  nothing  stable  in  it,  and  nothing  permanent 
except  change  itself.  The  earth,  the  sky,  the 
twenty-eight  inferni,  demons  themselves,  and  the 
inferior  worlds  which  they  inhabit,  all  is  forever 
flowing  past  like  the  waters  of  a  river;  or,  more 
truly,  is  coming  and  going  like  the  diverse  colors  of 
a  flame,  which  springs  up,  becomes  intense,  decreases, 
is  extinguished.  After  this  one,  another,  and  then 
another;  and  so  on,  through  a  series  in  cycles,  in 
periods,  perpetually  repeating  themselves.  The 
series  is  eternal;  it  had  no  beginning,  and  will  have 
no  end. 

In  this  universe,  what  is  man?  A  something  that 
thinks,  but,  like  all  the  rest  of  things,  nothing  more 
than  a  sum  of  forces,  united  for  a  time,  but  con- 
demned presently  to  separate;  a  collection  of  facul- 
ties and  tendencies,  a  series  of  images,  ideas,  fan- 
cies, wishes,  emotions,  which  are  transitory,  while 
their  order  for  a  time  subsists,  as  the  form  and 
structure  of  an  organized  body  endures  through  the 
perishing  and  reconstructing  of  the  molecules  which 
compose  it.  Nothing  in  man  is  stable,  neither  the 
incidents  which  collectively  and  successively,  ac- 
cording to  a  certain  law,  constitute  his  personality, 
nor  that  law  itself,  which  changes  slowly  with  his 
growth  and  his  decline.  There  are  five  elements 
(skandhas)  whose  cohesion  makes  the  individual, 


34  IN  INDIA. 

and  the  Buddhist  shows  in  detail  that  no  one  of 
these  elements  is  a  permanent  substance.  The  first 
comprises  the  material  qualities  (extent,  solidity, 
color);  these  are  like  the  foam,  which  slowly  is  born, 
then  vanishes.  The  second  includes  the  sensations; 
these  are  like  bubbles  dancing  on  the  surface  of  the 
water.  In  the  third,  perceptions  and  judgments  are 
like  the  vague  mists  of  noonday.  In  the  fourth,  the 
moral  and  mental  tendencies  "are  like  the  plantain 
stem,  which  has  no  strength  or  solidity."  To  con- 
clude, thoughts,  the  fifth,  are  spectres,  illusions  of 
magic. 

"O  mendicants!"  said  Gautama,  "in  whatever 
manner  the  different  teachers  regard  the  soul,  they 
imagine  it  to  be  one  of  the  five  elements,  or  to 
be  the  sum  of  them  all.  Thus,  O  mendicants!  the 
man  who  is  not  converted,  and  who  does  not  under- 
stand the  law  of  the  converted,  sometimes  considers 
the  soul  as  identical  with  the  material  qualities,  or 
as  possessing  them,  or  as  containing  them,  or  as 
residing  in  them;  sometimes  as  identical  with 
sensation,  or  as  containing  it,  or  as  residing  in 
it,"  and  so  on,  as  to  the  other  three  elements. 
Conceiving  the  soul,  therefore,  in  one  or  other 
of  these  ways,  he  reaches  the  idea:  I  am.  From 
sensation,  for  example,  the  ignorant  or  sensual 
man  derives  the  notion:  "I  am;  this  /  exists.  I 
shall  be  or  not  be,  I  shall  have  or  shall  not  have 
material  qualities,  I  shall  have  or  not  have  ideas. 
But  the  wise  disciple  of  converted  men,  though  he 
possesses  the  five  organs  of  the  senses,  being  freed 
from  ignorance,  has  attained  to  knowledge.  For 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  35 

this  reason  the  ideas:  I  am,  this  /exists,  I  shall  be 
or  shall  not  be,  no  longer  present  themselves  to  his 
mind." 

Descartes  has  said :  Cogito,  ergo  sum.  The  Bud- 
dha would  have  said  :  "I  think,  therefore  I  am  not." 
For  what  is  thought  but  a  series  of  changes,  a  suc- 
cession of  different  events?  According  to  modern 
psychologists  it  is  nothing  else.  A  mechanism, 
which  Taine  in  France  and  Stuart  Mill  in  England 
have  studied,  creates  in  us  the  illusion  of  the  /-sub- 
stance, the  most  pernicious  of  all,  Buddhists  say — 
the  principal  snare  laid  for  us  by  Maya,  the  great 
Tempter;  for  this  is  the  tie  which  attaches  us  to 
things,  the  great  mirage  which  plucks  us  from  im- 
mobility and  indifference,  and  flings  us  into  action 
and  drives  us  onward.  Buddhism  calls  this  heresy, 
the  heresy  of  individualism  (sakkaya  ditthi). 

Once  admit  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but 
a  flow  of  appearances,  that  neither  in  ourselves,  nor 
outside  of  ourselves,  anything  is  lasting,  and  con- 
duct becomes  clear ;  the  man  recognizes  as  an  illusion 
this  /which  seemed  to  him  so  important.  He  is  at 
once  enfranchised ;  he  no  longer  aspires  to  continue 
this  //  he  ceases  to  make  effort,  or  to  desire ;  he  has 
lost  the  thirst  for  life,  and  is  thus  set  free  from 
suffering.  For  whence  comes  suffering?  Precisely 
from  these  events  which  constitute  personal  exist- 
ence:  birth,  old  age,  illness,  decreptitude,  death. 
And  why  are  these  events  suffering?  Because  the 
illusion  of  the  /,  whence  comes  the  will  to  live  and 
to  persist  in  existence,  creates  desire  and  fear,  makes 
us  repulse  old  age  and  illness  and  death,  and  desire 


36  77V  INDIA. 

their  opposites.  Uproot  from  us  this  love  of  being, 
and,  ceasing  to  resist,  or  act,  or  think,  escaping  the 
universal  law  of  change,  we  shall  become  insensible 
to  suffering,  which  proceeds  from  change.  "  He  who 
conquers  this  contemptible  thirst  of  being,  suffering 
quits  him,  as  drops  of  water  slip  off  the  lotus  leaf." 
There  follows  an  enumeration  of  the  ways  that  lead 
to  this  condition  of  perfection :  the  first,  which  de- 
stroys the  heresy  of  individualism  and  the  belief  in 
the  necessity  of  rites  and  ceremonies;  the  second, 
which  destroys  all  passion,  all  hate,  all  illusion ;  the 
third,  which  removes  the  last  traces  of  self-love;  the 
fourth,  or  lofty  path  of  the  arahats,  that  is  to  say,  of 
men  enfranchised  by  intuition,  who  have  ceased  to 
aspire  to  any  existence,  material  or  immaterial. 

Arriving  at  this  point,  the  man  has  given  up  him- 
self; he  no  longer  gravitates  toward  himself,  he  is  no 
longer  a  centre  of  attraction,  an  egoistic  force  labor- 
ing to  persist.  He  can  give  himself  to  others;  and 
charity,  pity  for  another's  sufferings,  penetrates  his 
heart.  "As  a  mother,  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life, 
defends  her  son,  her  only  son,  let  a  man  cultivate  a 
boundless  love  for  all  that  exists,  for  the  entire 
world;  let  this  love  extend  around  him,  above  him, 
below  him,  free  from  the  rival  sentiment  of  self- 
interest:  let  him  persist  firmly  in  this  condition  of 
mind  during  all  his  waking  hours,  whether  he  is 
standing  or  sitting,  in  action  or  in  repose."  "His 
senses  are  at  peace.  He  is  like  a  well-trained  horse; 
he  is  freed  from  pride,  washed  from  the  pollution  of 
ignorance,  insensible  to  the  incitements  of  the  flesh." 
It  appears  that  the  gods  themselves  envy  a  fate  like 


CE  YL  ON.     B  UDDHISM.  3  7 

this.  "  He  whose  conduct  is  upright  is  like  the  broad 
earth,  immovable;  like  the  columns  which  sustain  a 
portico,  steadfast ;  calm  as  a  lake  of  crystal."  For 
him  there  is  no  further  birth.  "Tranquil  is  the 
mind,  tranquil  are  the  words  and  acts  of  him  who  is 
enfranchised  by  wisdom.  They  aspire  not  to  a 
future  life;  the  allurement  of  living  having  disap- 
peared, and  no  new  desire  arising  in  their  hearts, 
they,  the  wise,  become  extinct,  as  a  lamp  to  which 
no  new  oil  is  supplied."  This  is  the  supreme 
felicity.  Having  sounded  the  depths  of  all  things, 
Sakya-Muni,  like  the  Brahmas,  his  predecessors, 
found  nothing  substantial.  All  substance  that  he 
touched  melted  under  his  hand,  and  his  embrace 
enfolded  only  the  empty  air.  Everywhere  gleamed 
illusive  phantasmagoria,  everywhere  events  whirled 
and  fled  away.  Nothing  was  permanent ;  let  us 
cease,  therefore,  to  wish  to  be  permanent  ourselves. 
Nature  deceives  the  ignorant,  to  attain  her  ends ;  but 
the  wise  man  refuses  to  be  duped  by  her.  He  escapes 
from  the  incessant  motion  of  appearances  to  take 
refuge  in  the  calm  of  nothingness.  He  has  made  a 
void  in  his  own  mind,  nothing  moves  within  him, 
and  if  his  lips  stir,  it  is  only  in  a  smile  of  chanty  and 
compassion  for  the  sad  human  tumult. 

Such  are  the  characteristic  features  of  this  Bud- 
dhist religion,  whose  rites  I  witnessed  in  the  faintly 
lighted  temple  near  the  black  lake.  Inertia,  a  con- 
dition of  being  at  peace,  a  blessed  quietude,  an 
indifference  of  the  will,  a  numbness  of  the  person- 
ality, gentleness — all  these  Buddhist  virtues  are 
visible  among  these  Cinhalese  of  the  interior,  this 


38  IN  INDIA. 

gracious  people  who  just  now  bent  silently  before 
the  sacred  image,  ignorant  of  effort,  of  revolt,  and 
of  despair,  smiling  and  at  rest,  among  the  flowers. 
Whether  their  tranquillity  and  languor  come  to 
them  from  their  religion,  or  whether  their  religion 
only  gives  expression  to  tendencies  in  them  which 
surrounding  nature  has  established,  they  are  true 
Buddhists.  They  are  walking  in  the  first  of  the 
paths  of  salvation ;  above  them,  these  priests  who 
receive  the  flowers,  impassive  behind  the  silver  rail- 
ings, these  ascetic  mendicants,  with  close-shut  lips 
and  intellectual  brows,  are  sages  walking  in  the 
second  and  third  paths,  victorious  over  passion 
and  hate  and  illusion.  But  the  Buddhists  tell  us 
no  man  has  attained  to  the  highest  path,  no  man 
has  reached  the  lofty,  serene  regions,  the  calm  of 
Nirwana,  except  the  Master,  whose  pale,  expression- 
less face  is  faintly  seen  in  the  dimness,  above  the 
priests  and  the  worshippers,  with  eyes  nearly  closed, 
amid  moving  clouds  of  perfume. 

In  the  morning  it  was  a  great  surprise  on  awak- 
ing to  find  myself  here,  the  red  road  in  front,  and 
the  tiny  houses  crouching  among  the  verdure  of 
the  hills.  At  this  early  hour,  all  things  have  a  sin- 
gular glitter,  a  wet,  fresh  lustre.  Silvery  mists  cling 
to  the  hillsides,  and  softly  enwrap  the  terraced  palm 
trees,  which  rise  out  of  the  vapor,  dripping  with 
dew  and  shining  with  virgin  brilliancy.  Not  a  per- 
son is  to  be  seen  on  the  road  leading  to  the  Pera- 
dinya  Gardens ;  there  is  only  this  fragrant  vegeta- 
tion, as  of  a  newly  created  paradise  in  which  man 
has  not  yet  appeared. 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  39 

At  a  bend  of  the  road  a  bridge  of  black  wood 
appears,  and  I  stand  still  in  wonder.  Under  the  open 
sky,  between  two  walls  of  solid  verdure,  a  muddy, 
lustrous  river  moves  with  slow  current.  There 
is  not  a  wave,  not  a  ripple,  not  a  shiver  on  its  sur- 
face ;  the  heavy  water  moves  as  if  solid,  its  brown 
lustre  cut  by  strong,  motionless  shadows.  On  both 
sides  the  luxuriance  of  wet  vegetation :  at  the  left 
noble  palm  trees,  rising  in  terraces,  lustrous,  mighty, 
and  regular,  thrice  royal  in  their  height,  their 
beauty,  and  their  glossy  foliage ;  at  the  right,  thick 
clumps  of  trees,  verdant  walls  of  bamboo,  and  tropi- 
cal climbers,  a  luxuriance  of  green  and  supple 
things,  which  spring  out  of  the  muddy  soil,  crowd- 
ing, crushing  each  other  to  get  to  the  light,  and 
then  falling  back  in  a  confused  mass,  spreading 
itself  out  in  the  blackness  of  the  shadow  which  all 
this  vegetation  casts  upon  the  river.  And  all 
along,  so  far  as  the  lustrous  curve  can  be  seen,  the 
same  display  of  useless  strength  carelessly  lavished 
to  overflowing,  the  same  furious  outburst  of  life. 

Not  far  distant  are  the  Peradinya  Gardens,  where 
I  spend  the  day,  dining  alone  on  a  little  rice  and 
some  cocoanuts  in  the  hut  of  a  Cinhalese  keeper. 
One  can  walk  for  many  leagues  in  this  place,  meet- 
ing no  human  being,  yet  still  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain order,  a  plan  in  this  marvellous,  wild  garden. 
It  is  the  paradise  of  some  Eastern  tale,  designed, 
inhabited,  by  invisible  genii,  far  from  the  real,  terres- 
trial life.  Humming  birds  in  endless  variety,  a  little 
winged  world,  sparkle  in  the  magnificence  of  this 
solitude.  There  are  wide  lawns  where  tropical 


40  IN  INDIA. 

plants  can  grow  freely  and  attain  their  full  size; 
there  are  stiff  avenues  of  lofty  trees,  which  shoot 
up,  shining  and  metallic,  their  foliage,  a  single  clus- 
ter of  palm  leaves,  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  from 
the  ground ;  there  are  ferns  of  improbable  shades, 
blue  ferns,  subtile  as  vapors;  there  are  leaves  as 
delicate  as  dream  vegetation — green  lace,  like  a  cob- 
web, varieties  of  Adiantum,  a  very  fairies'  hair.  At 
the  end  of  an  avenue  of  banians  there  are  giant 
caoutchoucs  extending  their  enormous  branches  so 
far  that,  unable  to  be  supported  by  the  parent  trunk, 
they  drop  to  the  ground,  take  root,  and  form  new 
trees.  In  every  direction  their  monstrous  roots, 
thrown  out  from  the  ground,  rise,  in  rough  vertebrae 
four  feet  high,  and  spread  to  a  great  distance  with 
powerful,  sinuous  motion.  It  is  like  molten  rock,  a 
radiation  of  cooled  lava  from  some  primeval  crater 
long  extinct. 

At  last  I  reach  the  triumph,  the  apotheosis,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  island's  vegetation.  On  the  edge  of  the 
gardens,  beside  the  slow-moving,  yellowish  water  of 
a  £angai  there  is  a  sheaf  of  bamboos  a  hundred  feet 
in  circuit.  They  are  crowded  together,  smothering 
each  other,  each  one  as  large  as  a  European  tree. 
The  hard  stems,  bluish  and  glossy,  in  joints  two  feet 
long,  perfectly  round,  are  gorged  with  water.  Some, 
spotted  with  green,  seem  to  have  been  poisoned. 
They  grow  so  crowded  that  only  the  outside  stems 
are  visible;  the  others,  covered  and  repressed, 
spring  straight  up  in  darkness.  With  a  supple 
movement,  at  the  height  of  a  hundred  feet,  they 
separate,  spread  apart  in  the  form  of  a  vase,  and  are 


CE  YL  ON.     B  UDDHISM.  4 1 

lost  in  a  great  rustling  mass  of  dark  leafage.  This 
gloomy  sheaf  has  something  actually  sinister  in  its 
aspect ;  it  seems  to  be  an  upspringing  of  venomous 
sap.  Really,  you  feel  yourself  overcome  with  terror 
in  the  presence  of  a  gigantic  force  whose  outburst 
nothing  can  arrest.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  this 
crowd  of  trunks,  packed  close  against  each  other, 
the  violence  of  their  impetus,  the  lithe  slenderness 
of  the  lofty  stems.  The  life  is  strong  and  simple  in 
these  giants  of  the  tropical  flora.  In  June  and  July 
they  grow  a  foot  a  day.  Now,  even  in  November, 
the  sap  is  all  in  ebullition,  and  the  organic  work 
goes  on  in  a  tumult  of  eagerness;  this  is  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  slow  growth  of  our  oak  trees  in 
Europe,  built  up,  cell  after  cell,  by  the  deliberate 
hand  of  centuries.  These  bamboos  are  big  grasses; 
they  have  the  brilliancy  and  suppleness  of  ferns,  as 
they  spring  up  impetuosuly  from  the  deep  soil 
toward  the  creating  sun. 

NOVEMBER  12. 

Yesterday,  on  the  railway,  returning  from  the 
interior  of  the  island,  I  met  a  Hollander;  fat,  gentle, 
pale,  peaceful  of  gesture,  scanty  of  speech.  Of  the 
Dutch  temperament  there  is  left  only  the  phlegm 
and  softness;  the  sanguine  flesh  tint  has  disappeared 
under  the  heat.  After  five  minutes  he  asked  me 
my  address,  that  he  might  send  me  some  flowers; 
for  my  pockets  overflowing  with  roses,  jasmines, 
mimosas,  my  admiration  for  the  very  great  size 
of  the  floral  display  on  every  side  had  surprised 
him.  After  a  time  I  learned  that  my  man  is  a 
native  of  Ceylon,  that  he  has  tea  plantations  in 


42  IN  INDIA. 

the  mountain,  and  lives,  with  his  family,  at  Colombo. 
To-day  I  dine  with  him.  His  bungalow,  situated  in 
the  cinnamon  gardens,  is  like  a  villa  of  some  rich  old 
Roman:  deliciously  bright  and  cool,  immense  halls 
separated  by  partitions  of  fragrant  woods,  carved 
and  cut  in  fretwork;  great  wicker  chaises  longues, 
where  one  may  recline  all  day  with  cigarette  or 
book.  The  children  pretty,  but  singularly  pallid, 
a  translucid,  waxen  tint,  fined  down  and  enfeebled 
by  the  climate;  a  household  of  servants,  who  seem 
very  much  beloved ;  parents  and  children  speak 
Cinhalese  to  them. 

After  breakfast  we  loiter  in  the  garden,  where 
grow  freely  the  rare  flowers  of  our  greenhouses,  and 
the  most  beautiful  Cinhalese  palms.  As  I  broke  a 
blade  of  some  large  grass-like  plant,  a  jet  of  sap 
burned  my  hand.  This  shows  the  heat  and  activity 
of  Cinhalese  vegetation. 

I  am  obliged  to  go ;  to-night  we  shall  be  at  sea. 
I  desired  to  see  again  the  calm  and  serious  eyes  of 
the  monks,  and  the  smile  of  the  reclining  Buddha, 
that  the  recollection  might  not  be  lost  at  once; 
accordingly  I  ended  my  last  day  in  the  temple  of 
Colombo. 

In  the  evening,  while  the  day  was  dying,  I  went 
as  far  as  the  beach  of  Mount  Lavinia,  a  solitary 
shore  bordered  by  a  tall,  dark  forest  of  cocoanut 
trees,  which  suggests  a  thought  of  little  savage, 
desolate  islands  upon  the  equator's  line,  lost  in  the 
vast  expanse  of  waters.  In  the  distance,  roughened 
by  the  wind  outside,  the  sea  was  blue,  the  vast 
Indian  Ocean,  all  alive,  full  of  ardor  and  force,  foam- 


CEYLON.     BUDDHISM.  43 

ing  upon  the  horizon  in  sudden  and  silent  patches 
of  white.  The  big  waves  coming  in  upon  the  red 
land  broke  with  dull,  heavy  sound,  and  amid  the 
monotony  of  this  tumult,  from  time  to  time,  I  heard 
the  sad  rustling  of  the  tall  cocoanut  trees. 


CHAPTER  III. 
PONDICHERY.    CALCUTTA. 

NOVEMBER  16. 

WE  resume  the  sea  life:  long  enervating  days 
upon  the  tranquil  water,  under  the  same  sky,  pale 
with  excess  of  light;  long  nights  on  deck,  under 
the  tropical  stars;  and  then,  a  weariness  of  this 
monotony. 

One  morning  we  awake  in  the  harbor  of  Pon- 
dichery.  Natives,  nude  and  black,  each  with  his 
big  turban  on,  have  come  paddling  out  to  us. 
Rapidly  resuming  their  costume  of  ceremony  (which 
is  only  a  handkerchief),  and  climbing  by  the  port- 
holes like  a  band  of  lively  ants,  they  seize  upon  us 
and  hurry  us  into  their  skiffs.  They  ply  their  pad- 
dles rapidly,  their  eyes  shining  with  delight,  and 
utter  enthusiastic  cries,  in  which  suddenly  we  recog- 
nize French  words: 

"  Hurrah  pour  papa  !  Hurrah  pour  maman  ! 
Hurrah  pour  le  bon  voyage  f" 

This  is  all  they  know  of  our  language,  the  big, 
savage  children.  This  ignorance  does  not  prevent 
them,  I  understand,  from  possessing  the  franchise, 
and  voting,  with  all  the  dignity  of  free  citizens. 
The  high  priest  of  the  pagoda  comes  to  an  agree- 
ment with  the  governor,  and  the  people  vote  under 

44 


PONDICHERY.     CALCUTTA.  45 

his  orders,  as  they  would  perform  a  rite,  a  religious 
ceremony  akin  to  the  periodical  procession  of  the 
sacred  images  in  their  chariots. 

A  great  crowd  on  the  pier.  We  bring  with  us 
a  high  functionary  of  the  Republic.  The  military 
forces  of  French  India,  the  three  hundred  Sepoys 
that  Great  Britain  tolerates,  are  here,  drawn  up  in 
double  rank,  enchanted  at  playing  soldier,  very 
much  pleased  with  their  brilliant  uniforms.  With 
many  blows  from  the  butt-end  of  guns  the  crowd 
of  curious  natives  is  kept  off;  the  whites,  however, 
pass  freely  under  the  arches  of  triumph  on  which 
appear  official  welcomes  and  acclamations.  Poor, 
white  population  of  Pondichery,  poor  Frenchmen, 
born  so  far  away,  posterity  of  gallant  ancestors  who 
established  themselves  here  when  France  was  a  fa- 
mous power  on  Indian  soil,  and  are  now  so  forgot- 
ten, so  remote !  I  notice  descendants  of  old  colonial 
families,  and  nothing  is  more  striking  than  to  dis- 
cover in  them  the  features  and  the  expression  of  our 
race.  They  seem  marvellously  provincial,  behind  the 
times,  with  a  kind  of  fatigue,  effeminacy,  enfeeble- 
ment,  sometimes  an  appearance  of  being  withered. 
Everything  here  seems  like  a  little  French  provincial 
town,  very  remote  from  the  centre,  yet  living  only 
by  the  few  drops  of  life  distributed  from  their  own 
centre,  the  fatuous  sub-prefecture,  where  everything 
is  according  to  rule,  tiresome,  old-fashioned.  This 
place  is  much  more  remote  from  Paris  than  Carpen- 
tras  or  Landerneau. 

Meantime  the  high  functionary  disembarks.  The 
notables  receive  him ;  there  are  prolonged  presen- 


46  IN  INDIA, 

tations  and  official  smiles.  Very  pompously,  a 
native  personage  bends  before  him,  much  entangled 
in  his  white  robes,  loaded  with  jewels,  very  stout  and 
heavy  of  motion,  his  little  eyes  blinking  in  his  fat, 
dull  Brahman's  face.  He  leans  with  dignity  upon 
his  silver  cane,  an  heirloom  with  which  his  family 
was  honored  one  day,  when,  bullets  having  given 
out,  his  ancestor  offered  ingots  of  gold  with  which 
to  bombard  the  English  laying  siege  to  Pondich£ry. 

More  presentations,  addresses,  shaking  of  hands. 
Now  the  functionary  of  the  Republic,  attended  by 
his  secretaries  in  black  coats,  advances  at  the  head 
of  the  procession,  passes  under  the  triumphal  arches, 
and  the  French  army  of  the  three  hundred  Sepoys 
marches  after.  Very  touching,  and  slightly  comic  in 
its  exotic  setting,  is  this  ceremony,  which  recalls 
our  distributions  of  prizes,  official  inaugurations  of 
monuments,  and  electoral  rounds  made  by  ministers. 

The  city  is  agreeable  to  behold,  bright  and  clean. 
Everywhere  this  red'  Indian  soil,  and  perfumes 
from  unseen  sources.  The  roads  stretch  away  in 
straight  lines,  bordered  by  palm  trees,  and  con- 
stantly traversed  by  little  striped  squirrels  raising 
little  clouds  of  dust.  We  are  already  far  distant 
from  Ceylon ;  this  vegetation  has  something  precise 
and  well  regulated  about  it.  This  avenue  of  palm 
trees  was  no  doubt  the  same  ten  years  ago  that  it 
is  to-day;  there  is  nothing  of  the  soft  undulation  of 
rapid  growth  here. 

The  greatest  delight  of  the  eye  here  is  to  observe 
this  multitude  of  women  moving  about,  so  simply 
and  superbly  draped.  With  their  erect  bearing,  the 


PONDICH&RY.     CALCUTTA,  47 

shoulders  thrown  back,  the  head  carrying  a  copper 
jar,  their  outlines  are  truly  statuesque.  Notwith- 
standing the  brilliancy  of  color,  it  is  a  world  that 
makes  one  think  of  ancient  Greece;  the  same  plas- 
tic attitudes,  the  same  tranquillity  of  gesture,  the 
same  outdoor  life,  and  the  same  small  houses  built 
of  earth,  low,  cool,  white,  square,  devoid  of  furni- 
ture, where  women  sit  in  the  shadow  and  spin. 

At  two  miles'  distance  from  Pondichery  we  come 
to  the  pagoda  of  Villianur;  and  we  no  longer  think 
of  Greece.  Above  the  village,  twenty  wretched 
hovels  of  dried  mud,  twenty  huts  of  savages,  within 
whose  shade  black  figures  with  bestial  heads  are 
drowsing,  rises  an  indescribable  something,  a  bluish 
heap  of  swarming  figures,  a  confused  pyramid  of 
porcelain  monsters,  grimacing,  innumerable,  in  ser- 
ried ranks,  one  above  another.  It  is  hideous  and 
insane,  this  pagoda  roof;  it  is  an  imagination  of  a 
diseased  brain,  which,  crushed,  perverted  by  the 
torrid  sun,  raves  in  grotesque  and  horrible  visions. 
And  in  this  heap  of  shapeless  figures,  of  twisted 
limbs  that  writhe  about  each  other,  there  is  not 
merely  the  lack  of  sanity,  but  there  is  also  a  some- 
thing savage,  disturbing,  incomprehensible,  like  the 
Polynesian  idols  or  the  ancient  sanguinary  Mexican 
divinities, — something  that  speaks  of  the  old  indige- 
nous races  which  the  Aryan  conquerors  met  every- 
where in  India:  mysterious  black  races  that  still 
people  this  southern  part  of  the  peninsula,  send- 
ing out  wandering  tribes  through  the  forests  of  the 
interior.  This  character  is  noticeable  in  all  the 
architecture  of  Southern  India.  Next  door  to  Pon- 


48  IN  INDIA. 

diche'ry,  at  Madura  and  Trichinopoli,  it  attains  its 
utmost  extravagance  and  strangeness,  displaying 
itelf  in  granite  pagodas  as  large  as  cities,  covering 
the  earth  with  pillars,  heaping  up,  in  gigantic  pyra- 
mids, gods  and  goddesses,  demons,  heroes,  monkeys, 
horses,  elephants — a  whole  world  of  human  and 
animal  forms,  which  are  massed  together  in  most 
astonishing  confusion. 

A  crowd  of  black-skinned  priests  and  worshippers 
came  yelping  about  us,  and  a  hundred  hands  were 
greedily  stretched  out.  Some  random  blows  with  a 
stick  from  my  guide,  and  sadness  settled  upon  their 
faces,  outcries  changed  to  wailing,  and  the  begging 
hands  were  extended,  clasped  in  supplication. 
Quick,  some  little  silver  coins  to  restore  joy  in  this 
poor  black  world  ;  and  the  piteous  faces  of  the  Brah- 
mans  are  overspread  with  broad  smiles  of  infantile 
delight !  At  once  they  send  the  crowd  away,  and 
consult,  with  an  air  of  mystery.  Two  minutes'  con- 
ference, and  then  two  of  the  older  priests  slip  away, 
they  vanish  into  the  sanctuary,  and  return  triumph- 
antly, their  faces  radiant  at  the  surprise  they  are 
preparing  for  us,  leading  out  a  troop  of  bayaderes  in 
full  costume.  Clad  in  silks,  their  noses,  ears,  arms, 
and  ankles  loaded  with  rings,  with  languid,  alluring 
gestures,  and  shiverings  of  the  body  and  of  the 
finger-tips,  they  execute  an  erotic  pantomime.  Not 
very  seductive,  these  bayaderes,  with  their  brutish 
fat  faces  and  thick  lips  which  mark  the  inferior  race. 
Their  look  is  vacant  and  almost  idiotic,  the  mouth 
open  in  a  stupid  smile.  Evidently  the  soul  is  lack- 
ing; these  black  women  are  too  near  the  animal. 


PONDICHERY.     CALCUTTA.  49 

Behind  them  is  the  entrance  to  the  sanctuary ;  we 
are  not  allowed  to  go  in ;  but  in  the  darkness  I  can 
discover  vague  figures  of  gilded  divinities,  and  an 
extremely  ugly  idol  in  a  tabernacle.  Idols,  baya- 
deres, pyramids  of  monsters  heaped  upon  each  other, 
black-skinned  worshippers,  savage,  begging  priests, 
we  leave  them  all  with  little  delay,  somewhat  con- 
fused, not  very  well  comprehending  what  we  have 
seen. 

In  the  evening,  returing  to  Pondichery,  I  observe 
the  statue  of  Dupleix.  He  looks  toward  the  sea, 
standing,  in  an  attitude  of  command,  bold,  imperi- 
ous, with  defiant  eyes  full  of  an  extraordinary  deter- 
mination and  hardihood.  ''A  famous  man,"  says 
an  Englishman,  "and  one  who  gave  us  no  end  of 
trouble.  And  now  what  good  is  Pondichery  to 
you?  You  oblige  us  to  keep  customs  officers  on 
the  frontier;  and  all  our  robbers  take  refuge  with 
you.  What  does  this  colony  bring  you  in?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  a  Frenchman  replied;  "but 
Dupleix  must  have  a  statue  in  India,  and  he  must 
have  it  on  his  own  ground." 

NOVEMBER  19. 

What  is  this  new  sea  on  which  we  sail  to-day,  all 
brown  and  muddy,  with  dense,  heavy  waves?  There 
are  no  shores  on  the  horizon.  As  far  as  the  eye 
can  see,  quivers,  under  the  clear  blue  sky,  this  great 
mud-colored  circle,  shot  through  with  tawny  lights. 
We  are  entering  the  mouth  of  the  Hoogly;  these 
waters  are  loaded  with  earth  brought  by  the  Ganges 
and  the  Brahmaputra  from  the  plains  of  Hindustan 
and  the  slopes  of  the  Himalaya.  About  two  o'clock 


$0  IN  INDIA, 

in  the  afternoon  the  sea  begins  to  be  covered  with 
flecks,  brown  like  itself,  but  motionless,  dull,  or  of  a 
uniform  lustre,  and  in  the  general  glitter  the  only 
points  that  do  not  sparkle  in  the  sunlight.  This  is 
the  mud  which  the  river  deposits,  earth  which  it 
casts  up  from  its  waters — earth  as  yet  inert,  entirely 
bare,  primitive  brute  matter;  but  destined  to  be  a 
source  of  life  in  the  future,  whence  will  spring  tropi- 
cal jungles  with  their  swarming  organisms,  their 
venomous  vegetation,  their  hum  of  fiery  insects, 
their  pestilential  marshes.  And  one  recalls  to  mind 
that  far  away,  beyond  the  horizon,  along  an  extent 
of  two  hundred  miles,  this  prolific  slime  is  slowly 
accumulating;  in  the  midst  of  the  barren  waters 
there  is  silently  forming  a  new  bit  of  Asia. 

By  degrees  a  shore  appears;  but  very  indistinct, 
ill-defined,  a  shore  of  soft  mud,  only  a  little  above 
the  water,  like  the  earth  in  early  days  of  creation. 
Then,  there  is  vegetation :  herbaceous,  at  first, 
gloomy  thickets  of  bamboos  and  climbing  plants; 
then  dense  jungles  which  thrive  in  an  air  made  pes- 
tilential by  too  rapid  vegetable  growth  and  decay, — 
deadly  hot-beds  of  fermentation  where  cholera  and 
fever  are  endemic, — where  Nature,  left  to  herself  in 
the  absence  of  man,  again  essays  the  soft  forms  of 
primitive  life,  and  crocodiles  and  serpents  and  giant 
frogs  bask  in  the  tepid  mud,  and  flowers,  stimulated 
by  the  putrid  miasma,  climb  like  flames  around  the 
lofty  trees.  It  is  a  place  where,  if  one  were  ship- 
wrecked, the  river  itself  would  be  less  dangerous 
than  the  jungle  with  its  fevers  and  its  beasts  of 
prey;  and  so,  here  and  there  on  the  shore  there  are 


PONDICH&RY.     CALCUTTA.  51 

white  towers  where  sailors  who  have  been  cast  away 
can  find  food  and  medicine  and  be  out  of  reach  of 
tigers  while  they  wait  for  some  passing  boat  to  lake 
them  off. 

We  advance  slowly,  with  infinite  precautions. 
The  great  river  is  vehement,  and  would  quickly  over- 
turn the  boat  if,  caught  for  an  instant  on  a  sand 
bank,  she  presented  her  side  to  the  current.  We 
take  soundings  constantly.  The  river  bed  is  of 
moving  sands,  which  the  violence  of  the  water  dis- 
places, agitates,  digs  out,  heaps  up.  Now  the  shores 
close  in,  and  cultivated  lands  appear:  vast  golden 
harvests,  light-colored  rice  fields,  noble  clusters  of 
shining  palms.  On  the  edge  of  the  bank  a  wrhite 
file  of  natives  is  moving  through  the  tall  grass. 
Upon  the  river  great  vessels  are  passing  slowly, 
powerful  steamers,  whose  destinations  are  England, 
and  America,  and  Australia.  There  are  brigs  at 
anchor  in  great  numbers,  the  splendid  sunlight  shin- 
ing upon  their  poor  worn  sides,  which  have  the 
sinuous  curve  of  the  waves.  They  have  labored  on 
their  solitary  way,  lost  in  the  far-off  darkness  of 
ocean,  racked  in  all  their  ribs,  lifted  on  cruel  waves, 
falling  into  treacherous  hollows  with  heavy  shock, — • 
patient  hours  of  obscure  suffering.  To-day,  how 
peaceful  is  their  sleep  upon  the  shining,  rippling  sur- 
face of  the  great  river ! 

The  activity  increases:  one  feels  the  nearness  of 
a  vast  human  hive.  Heavy  lighters  go  by,  laying 
their  broad  paunches  upon  the  heavy  brown  water, 
careening  under  the  effort  of  the  strained  sail,  the 
man  at  the  helm  a  black  figure  against  the  light  tint 


$2  IN  INDIA. 

of  the  sky.  The  water  around  us  is  now  yellow, 
sirupy,  and  the  waves,  as  they  rise  in  light-colored, 
sinuous  undulations,  seem  to  glide  over  the  darkness. 

A  great  Liverpool  steamer  crosses  us,  high  out  of 
the  water,  five  hundred  feet  long,  all  black,  her  huge 
side  rising  like  an  iron  fortress.  We  have  a  glimpse 
of  an  English  crowd:  anxious-looking  faces;  men  in 
white  flannel;  girls  with  yachting  caps;  red  soldiers. 

And  then  palm  trees  again,  which  are  singularly  in 
contrast  with  great  yellow  factories  and  huge  smok- 
ing chimneys,  exactly  like  those  which  blacken  the 
grisaille  of  our  northern  sky.  Suddenly,  a  bend  of 
the  river;  a  forest  of  masts  appears,  and  behind 
them,  lofty  houses — Calcutta,  all  white,  all  glittering 
in  the  sunlight. 

NOVEMBER  23. 

Three  days  at  Calcutta.  I  have  seen  nothing,  con- 
fused by  the  crowd,  overwhelmed  by  the  heat.  One 
thing  comes  to  the  surface — the  sensation  of  white: 
white  light,  white  houses,  the  white-clad  crowd 
streaming  through  the  streets.  It  is  to  Colombo  or 
Pondichery  as  London  is  to  a  peaceable  country 
town.  By  the  number  of  shops,  officers,  banks,  car- 
riages, placards  upon  the  walls,  you  would  think  it 
might  be  Holborn  or  the  Rue  de  la  Bourse.  But 
in  the  streets,  instead  of  Europeans  in  black  coats 
and  silk  hats,  there  is  a  noisy  multitude  of  small  and 
slender  Bengalis,  wrapped  in  white  muslin,  deli, 
cate,  feminine  of  feature — not  indolent  and  drowsy 
as  in  Ceylon,  but  active,  nervous,  rapid,  quivering 
with  life.  Here,  as  in  London,  from  the  pencil  ven- 
ders kneeling  in  a  row  along  the  sidewalk,  to  the  fat 


PONDICHERY.     CALCUTTA.  53 

babus  reclining  in  their  carriages,  all  the  world  is  in 
hot  pursuit  of  money;  it  at  once  is  apparent  that 
this  city  is  one  of  the  commercial  centres,  one  of  the 
great  markets,  of  the  world. 

Nothing  is  more  grotesque  than  the  melange  of 
Asia  and  London.  At  times  you  might  think  your- 
self in  the  West  End,  near  Hyde  Park.  The  same 
broad,  straight  streets,  the  same  monumental  houses, 
the  same  porticos  with  Greek  columns,  the  same 
broad  sidewalks,  the  same  parks  with  railings  around 
them,  the  same  English  statues  at  street  corners. 
But,  at  certain  hours,  all  this  is  deserted;  light  fills 
all  the  space,  and  vibrates  with  a  white  splendor  in 
the  silence.  In  the  active  hours,  naked  men,  whose 
black  skins  exude  moisture  from  every  pore,  run 
about,  fighting  the  dust,  flinging  water  from  the 
leathern  sack  that  they  carry  under  the  arm.  In 
offices  men  work  the  punkah  overhead.  At  times 
in  summer  the  shops  are  shut,  the  horse-cars  stop 
running,  the  streets  become  empty.  Upon  the 
whole,  activity  is  artificial  here.  Nature  is  too 
strong  for  man  to  be  able  to  forget  her,  as  he  does 
in  Belgium  or  in  England ;  for  him  to  give  himself 
entirely  to  labor,  for  him  to  cover  everything  with 
his  work.  One  can  be  very  happy  here,  but  there 
must  be  tranquillity  and  silence,  and  the  green  shade 
of  trees — the  kind  of  life  natural  to  the  country. 

Some  expeditions  at  random  in  the  town:  One 
morning  I  attempt  to  penetrate  the  native  quarters. 
In  the  narrower  streets  always  the  same  hurrying 
crowd  of  Bengalis,  the  same  thousands  of  white 
petticoats,  the  same  thousands  of  dark,  thin,  refined 


54  IN  INDIA. 

faces.  From  time  to  time,  yellow  faces  of  Chinese, 
in  their  blue  frocks;  and  foreign  faces — men  from 
Nepaul,  from  the  Dekkan,  from  Afghanistan.  In 
vain  I  seek  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  the  streets  go 
on ;  they  are  crossed  by  others,  they  end  in  new 
streets,  always  full  of  the  same  fluttering  white 
garments  and  the  same  multitude,  with  its  confused 
noise,  its  continuous  hum  as  of  a  hive  of  bees.  And 
one  returns,  oppressed  by  the  feeling  of  this  human 
tide.  We  are  accustomed  to  say,  it  is  true,  that  our 
Europe  is  but  a  little  corner  of  the  globe,  where 
there  has  been  a  local  and  peculiar  development  of 
humanity;  we  all  know  that  there  are  other  human 
types;  we  know  that  there  have  been  others,  just 
as,  beside  a  certain  forest  of  oaks,  there  grows  a 
forest  of  pines;  just  as,  before  a  certain  forest  of 
oaks,  there  grew  a  certain  forest  of  great  ferns.  But 
this  is  merely  a  cold  and  abstract  idea,  void  of  images 
and  emotions.  Here  we  do  indeed  perceive  the 
mystery  and  the  diversity  of  this  humanity  rising 
from  its  deep,  obscure  springs  in  millions  of  undu- 
lating waves,  all  of  them  ephemeral,  born  only  to 
disappear,  forever  driven  out  of  existence  by  the 
incessant  afflux  of  new  water,  which  some  blind, 
imperious  effort,  we  know  not  what,  lifts  toward  the 
light.  Thrown  suddenly  into  the  midst  of  this  teem- 
ing Asiatic  world,  we  discover  one  of  these  springs, 
entirely  distinct  from  our  own,  having  never  mingled 
with  it,  yet  equally  deep,  inexhaustible,  copious,  and 
equally  grand  in  its  manifestation  of  the  Being  who 
is  never  weary  in  diffusing  himself  abroad,  according 
to  countless  types,  in  all  the  variety  of  sentient  life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  HIMALAYA.    DARJILING. 

NOVEMBER  24. 

TWENTY-FOUR  hours  of  railway  brings  us  to 
Darjiling,  and  the  chain  of  the  Himalaya.  We  take 
the  train  at  the  Bengal  Northern  station.  It  is  as 
large  as  King's  Cross  or  the  Gare  de  Lyon.  In 
the  great  glazed  terminus  trains  ready  to  depart 
await  their  passengers;  and  multitudes  of  Hindu 
employes  of  every  kind,  inspectors,  ticket-sellers, 
guards,  porters,  lamplighters,  refreshment-sellers, 
quietly  and  safely  carry  on  its  business.  Native 
book-sellers  have  their  shops,  adorned  with  the  last 
English  romances;  piles  of  newspapers  arrived, 
damp,  smelling  of  printer's  ink,  great  English 
"papers"  of  eight  pages,  loaded  with  advertise- 
ments, stiff,  lustrous,  and  not  easily  unfolded. 
Five  or  six  babus  came  into  my  wagon,  installed  by 
their  "boys."  They  opened  the  newspapers  and 
lighted  their  cigarettes.  Soft  faces,  gentle  and 
heavy,  English  short  coats;  but  their  untrousered 
legs  showed  brown  under  the  draped  muslin  of  their 
skirts. 

The  train  moves  out :  great  stores  of  coal,  gas- 
ometers, factories,  the  usual  dtcor  of  the  suburbs  of 
a  great  city.  Then  the  flat  country,  rice  fields,  bou- 

55 


5 6  IN  INDIA. 

quets  of  palm  trees,  shining  in  the  softest  and  rich- 
est light. 

Toward  the  horizon, — pale  blue,  but  not  at  all 
misty, — the  sun  descends,  but  without  the  slightest 
change  of  appearance.  It  melts,  yet  remains  intact, 
a  pure  disk  of  fluid  fire,  which  throbs  slowly,  sinks 
insensibly,  melts  as  it  touches  the  plain,  vanishes  in 
a  rosy  light  which  floats  motionless,  vaporized  upon 
the  horizon's  belt,  and  dies  into  the  blue  overhead. 
There  trembles  a  single  star,  rayless,  like  a  great 
drop  of  perfectly  white  water.  In  the  zenith  the 
sky  grows  dark,  while  the  horizon  reddens  like  glow- 
ing ashes;  and  we  spin  along  in  the  plain,  the  inter- 
minable and  empty  plain,  which  now  vanishes  on 
all  sides  into  the  darkness. 

In  the  north  are  distinguishable  vast  pale 
stretches,  vague  gleams  of  light,  the  distant  sheets 
of  water  of  a  great  river  which  has  overflowed  its 
banks. 

NOVEMBER  25. 

In  the  morning,  a  vast  level  country,  yellow  with 
grain ;  then  russet  with  dry  grass.  This  suggests, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  Tourgenieff  and  the  Rus- 
sian steppes.  All  things  awake,  in  calm  of  the  first 
hour:  the  clear  cry  of  large  birds  which  are  passing 
in  triangles;  in  the  tall  grass  files  of  men  are  going 
to  their  daily  labor.  The  familiar  feeling  recurs,  to 
which  our  own  plains  give  rise — one  loves  this  rich 
and  gentle  earth,  full  of  tranquil  strength — good 
to  men,  to  animals,  plants,  to  all  existences  that 
quietly  pursue  their  regular  life  upon  its  deep  breast. 

About  eight  o'clock,  straight  in  front  of  us,  in  the 


THE  HIMALAYA.     DARJILING.  5? 

open  sky,  well  above  the  plain,  something  floated, 
at  which  I  looked  for  a  long  time  without  thinking 
about  it, — a  pale  outline,  whose  paleness  and  precis- 
ion finally  excite  attention.  Suddenly  comes  the 
thought  that  this  must  be  the  Himalaya,  a  hundred 
miles  away.  So  high,  so  light,  its  snows,  scarcely 
tinged  with  blue,  seem  regions  of  a  thinner  air  in 
the  dense  azure.  This  cannot  possibly  be  part  of 
the  earth.  Under  it,  there  is  nothing;  there  are  no 
mountains  to  be  seen  ;  there  is,  again,  the  void,  blue 
depth  of  space;  and  it  seems  as  if  this  were  heaven 
opened,  an  inaccessible  paradise  hung  in  ether,  an 
abode  of  the  luminous,  sovereign  devas. 

At  Siliguri  we  change  trains.  The  first  slopes  are 
now  only  twenty  miles  away;  the  approach  of  a 
new  world  makes  itself  distinctly  felt.  Beside  the 
slender  Bengalis,  there  are  Mongol  mountaineers, 
short  and  thick-set,  with  square  face,  yellow  skin, 
oblique  eyes,  felt  boots,  a  three-bladed  poignard 
stuck  into  the  belt ;  and  their  cloaks  of  a  dark 
woollen  stuff  contrast  with  the  light-colored  robes  of 
the  effeminate-looking  Hindus.  This  is  the  frontier 
of  the  two  races,  the  limit  of  two  human  continents; 
for  the  Tatars,  who  begin  here,  cover  Central  Asia 
and  China,  extending  to  the  Arctic  snows.  What  an 
astonishing  human  variety  in  this  station  here,  at 
the  foot  of  the  Himalaya !  A  dozen  English  offi- 
cers and  planters,  two  or  three  German  and  Swedish 
travellers,  then  a  crowd  of  Hindus,  Lepchas,  Bhu- 
tias.  European  coats,  the  white  skirts  of  the  Ben- 
galis, the  red  robes  of  the  Lepcha  women, — who, 
in  feature,  ornaments,  and  dress  are  almost  Siberian, 


58  IN  INDIA. 

• — cloaks  from  Tibet,  are  piled  into  open  cars  which 
resemble  sledges;  the  little  locomotive  whistles, 
and  we  run  toward  the  blue  wall  which  bounds  the 
plain. 

When  the  vapors  which  are  pumped  up  from  the 
ocean  by  the  equatorial  sun  are  driven  by  the 
southwest  monsoon,  they  rise  into  the  Indian  sky, 
traversing  it  in  great  white  multitudes,  or  melting 
away  in  the  hot  air.  In  the  north  they  encounter  an 
icy  barrier,  twenty-three  thousand  feet  high,  and 
then  fall  in  snow  or  rain  upon  its  slopes.  Almost 
nothing  goes  beyond.  The  plateaus  of  Tibet  are 
arid,  the  southern  slopes  receiving  all  the  water 
drawn  from  the  Indian  seas.  Nothing  can  give  an 
idea  of  these  rains.  While  in  London  there  is  an 
average  fall  of  two  feet  of  water  annually,  the  aver- 
age here  is  thirty-one  feet.  In  the  year  1861  there 
was  a  rainfall  of  sixty-seven  feet.  There  is  great 
depth  of  earth,  an  extreme  heat  of  the  sun,  and  it 
may  be  imagined  what  the  vegetation  must  be. 
These  mountains,  whence  descend  all  the  great 
rivers  of  the  plain,  spread  life  throughout  Hindu- 
stan, and  at  its  source  this  life  has  its  greatest 
violence. 

Imagine,  then,  a  monstrous  elevation,  the  great 
backbone  of  the  earth,  against  which  tempests  from 
the  ocean  break  in  storms  and  downpours  of  water, 
like  the  primitive  cataclysms  of  the  world;  a  virgin 
growth,  springing  up  in  this  fire  and  water  and 
mist,  where  all  the  trees  and  all  the  plants  of  the 
world,  from  jungles  of  bananas  and  tropical  climbing 
plants,  to  forests  of  fir-trees,  are  superposed  ;  add  to 


THE  HIMALAYA.     DARJILING.  59 

this  the  tumult  of  cataracts,  the  impetuous  cry  of 
the  young  rivers ;  lower  down,  the  mewing  of  tigers ; 
high  up  above  the  rocks  the  scream  of  eagles  in  the 
icy  air;  everywhere,  re-echoing  peals  of  thunder:  a 
dense,  violent,  noisy  life,  which  seems  to  stream 
down  from  above;  or  rather  we  might  say,  which 
ascends  into  space,  becoming  fainter,  like  the  mur- 
mur of  a  distant  multitude,  and  expiring  in  the  silent 
indifference  of  ice-masses,  which  project  into  empty 
space :  and  one  perhaps  will  feel  the  grandeur  of 
this  mountain  world. 

We  begin  to  penetrate  it,  entering  the  jungle,  the 
thick  fur  of  trees  and  plants  which  extends  as  far  as 
the  snows.  Even  the  Cinhalese  forests  were  not  like 
this:  the  palms  and  bamboos,  of  too  rapid  growth, 
seemed  fragile  there,  and  the  admirable  lustre  of  the 
stems  and  leaves  was  due  to  a  perpetual  miracle  of 
heat  and  light.  Here,  it  is  the  tree  itself,  solid,  lig- 
neous, ancient,  not  slender  and  smooth,  but  rugged, 
enormous  of  trunk.  Magnolias,  mahogany  trees, 
are  buried  under  heavy  green  mosses,  which  from 
every  branch  hang  like  dripping  hair.  Climbing 
plants,  two  hundred  feet  long,  cross  from  tree  to 
tree,  strained  like  cables,  like  great  snakes  stiffened 
in  some  effort ;  and  beneath  the  lofty  forest  there  is 
another,  a  light  mist  of  ferns,  thickets  of  tall  plants, 
of  rhododendrons,  smothered  in  the  darkness. 

Now  the  first  slopes  are  below  us,  whence  the 
forests  descend,  stretching  out  into  the  plain,  like 
a  great  dark  cloak  fallen  at  the  mountain's  feet, 
spreading  itself  out  in  vast  folds,  in  heaps  of  shining 
verdure,  veiled  in  luminous  vapors,  pierced  with 


60  IN  INDIA. 

deep  holes  of  shadow.  On  one  side  the  mountain 
opens  in  an  amphitheatre,  ten  miles  broad,  full  of  a 
thick  bluish  atmosphere  that  is  visible.  Within  it, 
three  forests  seem  to  have  fallen  in,  and  lie  heaped 
up  and  reeking  in  the  sunlight,  giving  out  sheets  of 
quivering,  resinous  heat,  exhaling  the  breath  of  their 
mighty  vegetable  existence. 

Beyond,  the  plains  of  Bengal  extend,  vague,  indis- 
tinct ;  they  rise  toward  the  sky,  vanish,  disappear 
high  up  in  the  light  and  the  mist. 

At  seven  thousand  feet  it  is  very  cold  ;  we  already 
have  the  cold  of  Central  Asia.  We  encounter  the 
fog  coming  toward  us  like  a  vast,  gray  tide  :  it  moves 
slowly  around  the  trunks  of  the  great  forest,  clings 
to  them,  invades  the  thickets,  is  torn,  floats  in  frag- 
ments, reunites,  puts  out  the  sun,  leaving  it  a 
greenish  disk  like  some  strange  moon.  On  each 
side  are  pale  phantoms  of  giant  trees,  vaporous 
glimpses  of  dripping  undergrowth,  a  foggy,  colossal 
vegetation  which  seems  to  have  grown  up  without 
sunlight,  in  some  world  of  dreams.  How  far  away 
we  now  are  from  the  luminous  plain  where  man  lan- 
guishes in  his  white  muslins!  From  time  to  time 
appear  miserable  Lepcha  villages,  half  visible  in  the 
wet  darkness,  little  conical  huts,  almost  Chinese,  in 
which  blaze  huge  bright  fires;  low,  dark  shops,  full 
of  bananas  and  oranges  from  the  plain,  and  smoked 
meat.  A  Mongol  population,  splashing  about  in 
the  mud :  children  like  grotesque  figures  in  yellow 
wax ;  little,  angular  women  clad  in  heavy  red  woollen 
garments;  men  wrapped  in  their  goatskin  cloaks, 
with  green  boots,  and  little  three-peaked  felt  hats, 


THE  HIMALAYA,     DARJILING.  6 1 

much  more  unlike  ourselves,  with  their  heavy  faces, 
their  projecting  cheek-bones,  their  oblique  eyes; 
much  more  foreign  than  the  Hindu  or  the  Cinhalese, 
and  telling  of  an  entirely  distinct  human  race. 
Everything  here  is  Mongol.  The  yataghans,  the 
objects  of  lacquered  wood,  the  stunted  statuettes, 
that  are  sold  in  the  largest  village,  suggest  China; 
it  is  the  same  outlandish  art,  the  same  curious  un- 
shapeliness.  How  explain  this,  except  by  an  affin- 
ity of  race,  stronger  than  barriers  and  distances,  for 
Tibet  is  still  far  away,  the  other  side  of  the  high  icy 
passes,  almost  inaccessible;  and  English  India  is 
close  by! 

Suddenly  the  fog  breaks;  it  flies  beneath  us,  cleft 
like  a  torn  curtain,  and  there  is  revealed  in  full  light, 
from  base  to  summit,  the  whole  great  white  chain. 
We  have  just  reached  the  crest  of  the  only  line  of 
foothills  which  separates  the  high  peaks  from  the 
plains  of  India.  Between  us  and  the  snows  there  is 
only  a  sombre  circular  valley  of  a  hundred  square 
leagues,  in  which  the  fog  adds  its  darkness  to  the 
shadow  of  the  primeval  forests.  Across  the  valley, 
deployed  upon  an  arc  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  degrees, 
twenty  peaks  rise  to  a  height  of  twenty-three  thou- 
sand feet ;  they  rise  out  of  the  depths  of  the  valley 
like  huge  waves,  stiffened,  made  solid,  in  their 
upward  spring.  In  the  centre,  opposite  us,  so  near 
that  apparently  its  fall  would  reach  us  where  we 
stand,  Kunchain-Junga  unrolls  the  dense  jungles  of 
its  vast  base,  lifts  its  rocky  masses,  its  bluish  glaciers, 
and  outlines  up  there  against  the  cold  pallor  of  the 
sky  the  sharp  peak  of  its  summit,  at  a  height  of 


62  IN  INDIA. 

twenty-six  thousand  feet.     With  a  glance  the  eye 
measures  this  prodigious  height. 

This  is  what  I  have  before  my  eyes :  in  the  fore- 
ground, along  the  ridge  which  we  have  just  reached, 
specking  with  white  dots  the  black  background  of 
its  forests,  the  little  villas  of  Darjiling,  the  ultimate 
verge  of  the  civilized  world,  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss 
of  savage  Asia,  the  great  unknown  country,  peopled 
by  yellow  races;  then,  the  dark  void  of  the  immense 
valley,  a  shadowy  amphitheatre  filled  with  shape- 
less, floating  clouds.  Five  slender,  misty  rays  of 
light  traverse  it,  coming  from  a  dazzling  mass  which 
is  behind  us,  over  the  black  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain. Fixed  above  the  sombre  darkness  of  the  float- 
ing vapors,  these  rays  measure  the  gulf.  Neither 
ocean  nor  desert  could  give  the  vertiginous  sensation 
of  space,  as  do  these  five  rigid  lines,  flung  across  this 
valley,  forty  miles  in  breadth,  closed  by  a  wall 
twenty-four  thousand  feet  high.  In  this  deep,  a 
confusion  of  ridges  and  slopes;  but,  above,  calm 
uplifting,  sovereign  light,  the  inviolable  serenity  of 
the  great  summit  where  unite  all  the  obscure  moun- 
tain chains,  which,  in  Nepaul,  in  Tibet,  in  India, 
have  lifted  themselves,  and  struggled  through  the 
darkness  to  meet  each  other,  and  with  joint  impulse 
rise  above  all  things  into  the  silence  of  bright  space, 
and  dominate  the  world. 

NOVEMBER  26. 

One  arrives,  prepared  by  this  journey  for  great 
emotions;  and  here  is  an  English  summer  resort. 
On  the  road  from  the  station,  opposite  the  Hima- 
laya, are  large  posters:  Coleman's  Mustard,  Pears' 


TffE   HIMALAYA.     DARJ1LING.  63 

Soap,  Beecham's  Pills;  then,  a  crowd  of  children  on 
horseback,  active,  chubby  little  Saxons,  young  girls 
sitting  straight  in  the  saddle,  the  complexion  clear, 
a  pink  flush  on  the  cheek,  wearing  jockey  caps  and 
perfectly  fitting  habits,  followed  by  the  Hindu  ser- 
vant, humble  in  the  presence  of  the  stronger  race. 
You  pass  cottages  whose  bay-windows  are  framed 
in  clematis  and  climbing  roses.  On  the  gates  of 
the  little  gardens  are  names  of  English  villas,  "Birch- 
wood,"  or  "Woodland  House."  The  highest  points 
of  Darjiling — whence  one's  eyes  rest  upon  the  en- 
tire Sikkim — is  dotted  with  gay  little  villas,  among 
them  rising  a  little  Saxon  church  tower  of  gray 
stone,  like  those  that  keep  watch  over  the  pale  Eng- 
lish landscape.  Near  by,  a  tennis  ground,  from 
which  the  players,  in  their  flannels,  are  just  going 
off. 

At  sight  of  all  this  the  mind  changes  its  orienta- 
tion, and  old  recollections  emerge  from  the  dark- 
ness in  which  they  slept,  old  currents  of  ideas  and 
emotions  recur.  You  are  in  England,  it  is  sunset  of 
a  summer's  day,  and  if  you  look  up,  you  expect  to 
see  the  red  streaks  of  the  sky  across  a  wan  field. 
Here  are  the  "Assembly  Rooms,"  where  there  is 
dancing  in  the  evening,  and  the  first  flirtations 
which  lead  to  marriage.  Here  is  the  Dissenting 
Chapel,  which  Methodists,  Baptists,  and  Wesleyans 
enjoy  in  turn.  Here  are  the  scarlet  soldiers,  ath- 
letic, with  lustrous  hair,  who  live  like  gentlemen  in 
their  barracks,  and,  switch  in  hand,  assume  airs  of 
importance  in  the  street.  Here  is  the  genteel  and 
respectable  "boarding  house,"  such  as  you  may  have 


64  IN  INDIA. 

known  at  Eastbourne  or  Scarborough.  You  put  on 
a  black  coat  for  dinner;  the  mistress  of  the  house 
says  grace,  and  ceremoniously  sends  round  thin  slices 
of  lamb  or  beef,  and  heavy  bits  of  "pudding."  The 
husband,  a  personage  of  less  importance,  but  cor- 
rect, adds  to  the  respectability  of  the  house.  There 
is  conversation,  the  tranquil  conversation  of  well- 
bred  people  who  are  not  suspicious  of  one  another. 
In  the  drawing  room,  after  dinner,  a  young  lady  will 
seat  herself  at  the  piano,  and  the  evening  passes 
with  songs  from  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  last  operetta, 
or  some  patriotic  or  sentimental  melody,  and  there 
are  plans  for  the  next  day's  excursion. 

Compare  with  this  the  French  colony  in  Tunis 
or  Tonkin,  usually  all  bachelors!  How  a  man  is 
bored  there!  How  he  feels  his  exile!  But  these 
English  are  in  England,  here.  They  have  brought 
hither  not  only  their  institutions,  their  customs, 
their  prejudices,  but  their  whole  natural  environ- 
ment, and  the  mise  en  scene  to  which  they  are  accus- 
tomed. The  contact  of  a  different  world  seems  not 
to  affect  them  at  all.  In  fact,  no  race  is  less  capable 
of  adaptation,  less  flexible;  none  so  continuously 
persists  in  its  own  type  and  personality.  Hence, 
their  moral  energy,  and  the  force  of  their  will, 
directed  by  certain  immutable  ideas;  hence,  also, 
their  limited  sympathy  and  comprehension.  These 
people  ignore  the  native  entirely,  and  make  no 
effort  to  understand  him.  From  the  height  of  their 
civilization  they  regard  him  as  a  half-savage  "idol- 
ater." "Idolator"is  the  term  by  which  are  desig- 
nated indiscriminately  the  Hindu,  the  Buddhist, 


THE  HIM  A  LA  YA.     DARJILING.  65 

and  the  Parsi.*  This  is  quite  the  Biblical  point  of 
view;  thus  the  Jews  spoke  of  other  nations.  At 
Ceylon,  a  planter,  who  had  been  resident  in  the 
island  for  fifteen  years,  put  this  question  to  me: 
"And  what  are  the  names  of  their  idols?  What  is 
it  that  they  worship?" 

Just  now  I  was  admiring  the  hauteur,  the  phlegm, 
the  disdainful  silence  of  two  English  soldiers  in  the 
shop  of  a  vender  of  Chinese  things;  they  turned 
over  his  bibelots  without  a  glance  at  himself.  This 
evening,  at  table  d'hote,  a  young  officer,  lately 
arrived,  having  visited  during  the  day  a  lama's 
temple,  sums  up  his  impressions  briefly:  "A  nasty 
hole,  which  I  was  only  too  glad  to  get  out  of." 
The  inhabitant  is  to  them  only  a  coolie,  "a  boy," 
useful  for  carrying  luggage  or  blacking  boots;  as 
the  country  to  them  is  only  a  place  for  industrial  or 
agricultural  exploitation.  They  cut  away  the  finest 
forests  of  Darjiling  or  of  Ceylon  that  they  may 
cover  the  denuded  soil  with  their  melancholy  tea 
plantations.  Make  the  ascent  of  the  Sinchul,  the 
adjacent  height  which  overlooks  Darjiling,  and  you 
will  see  the  grandest  panorama  in  the  world :  south- 
ward, the  plains  of  India;  on  the  north,  the  Hima- 
layan peaks;  but  the  foreground  of  the  picture  is 
pure  English — gardens,  plantations,  villas,  churches, 
barracks. 

They  civilize;  and  this  not  only  for  their  own 
advantage,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty  toward  the 

*  In  Italy,  Germany,  and  France  an  Englishman  speaks  of  the  in- 
habitants as  "  the  natives."  In  English,  the  word  "  foreigner"  has 
the  same  meaning  that  "  barbarian  "  had  among  the  Greeks. 


66  Iff  INDIA. 

native  population.  To  cover  India  with  railways, 
to  enlarge  and  multiply  its  seaports,  to  increase  ten- 
fold its  commerce,  to  convert  it  to  Protestant  Chris- 
tianity, to  suppress  its  castes,  to  enfranchise  its 
women,  to  open  its  zenanas,  to  give  it — with  a  liking 
for  trousers,  black  coats,  cricket,  football,  English 
music  and  poetry — "a  practical  and  sensible  educa- 
tion":  in  this,  say  the  English,  consists  their  mission 
in  India,  being  persuaded,  with  Addison,  with  Syd- 
ney Smith,  with  Macaulay,  that  the  augmentation 
of  human  well-being,  a  decent,  reasonable,  comfort- 
able civilization,  in  a  word,  English  civilization,  is 
the  chief  end  and  aim  of  humanity.  "When  we 
have  finished  our  work  in  India,"  an  Englishman 
said  to  me  in  Ceylon,  "very  probably  the  Hindus 
will  be  able  to  do  without  us,  and  will  turn  us  out. 
But  we  shall  have  accomplished  our  mission." 
Thereupon  he  extolled  "the  railway  which  strikes 
through  the  forests,  brings  life  and  light  to  the 
interior  of  the  country,  and  makes  war  on  old  super- 
stitions and  Buddhist  mummeries."  They  are  so 
enterprising  that  India — now  furnished  with  manu- 
factories, railways,  universities,  banks — has  to-day 
the  budget  and  the  commerce  of  Italy  or  Austria; 
they  are  so  rigid  and  so  strong,  that  this  handful  of 
men  among  the  two  hundred  million  Hindus  remain 
absolutely  unchanged,  while  the  Hindu  seems  to 
become  English  from  contact  with  the  hundred 
thousand  colonists.  At  Calcutta  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  see  books  and  newspapers  of  Hindu 
authorship;  not  only  was  their  English  excellent, 
but  there  were  the  turns  of  thought,  the  style,  the 


THE  HIMALAYA.     DARJILING.  67 

prejudices,  all  the  English  forms  of  feeling  and  think- 
ing. Some  articles  might  have  come  from  the  pen  of 
the  reverend  editor  of  a  well-known  magazine  pub- 
lished in  London.  Thus,  certain  artistic  individuals 
of  plastic  soul,  after  talking  long  with  a  man  of  orig- 
inal and  powerful  personality,  unconsciously  copy  his 
attitudes  and  gestures,  and  the  inflections  of  his 
voice.  "A  race  of  flint,"  says  Carlyle  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxons;  yes,  a  race  of  flint,  which,  imprinting  itself 
without  itself  suffering  abrasion,  into  the  soft  Hindu 
clay,  stamps  all  its  own  angles  and  projections  there. 
Haughty  conquerors,  untiring  organizers,  they  are 
here  the  noble  race,  a  new  Brahman  race,  devas  of 
superior  order.  And  I  felt  it  this  morning,  when  I 
saw  above  the  grotesque  crowd  of  wretched  Mongols, 
the  upright  carriage,  the  calm  movement,  the  tran- 
quil, strong  gesture,  the  bright  faces,  the  serene  and 
determined  look  of  three  young  Englishmen. 

NOVEMBER  27. 

I  rise  before  four  o'clock  to  see  the  first  rays  of 
the  sun  on  Kunchain-Junga.  It  is  frosty  and  dark: 
nothing  is  visible  but  the  outlines  of  neighboring 
trees,  and,  up  there  among  the  cold  constellations, 
the  waning  moon,  too  slender  a  crescent  to  throw 
any  light.  There  is  nothing  to  be  seen,  but  you 
know  that  in  every  direction  the  ground  steals  away, 
sinks,  and  you  are  conscious  of  the  immense  dark 
forests  below,  and  of  the  country  of  Sikkim,  extend- 
ing in  the  darkness.  The  great  chain  has  disap- 
peared entirely. 

About  half-past  four,  high  up  in  the  sky  appears 


68  IN  INDIA. 

a  star,  a  very  singular  star,  for  as  you  watch  it,  it 
seems  to  grow  larger.  A  spot  of  rose-color  comes, 
remains,  increases.  Then  sharp  outlines  are  lighted 
up.  Below,  the  very  blackness  of  night,  not  a  sign 
of  dawn,  the  earth  asleep  in  the  darkness;  and  you 
are  afraid  of  those  luminous  things  appearing  up 
there  in  space,  that  light  not  of  this  world,  which 
seems  a  prelude  to  some  stupendous  change  in  the 
established  order. 

Then  all  the  snowy  summits,  coming  out  of  the 
night,  are  lighted  up  like  the  mysterious  shore  of  a 
pink  sea;  and  then,  a  long  time  after,  the  old  forests 
reappear. 

About  seven  o'clock  I  took  a  guide  to  penetrate 
a  little  the  mystery  of  the  jungle.  We  follow  a 
route  lying  along  the  edge  of  the  great  valley  and 
commanding  it.  Below  us,  out  of  the  dense  thickets, 
tree  ferns  arise,  like  palms,  out  of  their  sheath  of 
tawny  moss  soaked  in  dew.  Further  down,  the 
jungle  descends,  with  its  domes  of  lustrous  trees, 
seen  from  above,  half  veiled  by  the  heavy  air — de- 
scends to  the  bottom  of  the  great  valley  of  the 
Sikkim,  which,  four  thousand  feet  below  the  road, 
displays  the  sombre  stretch  of  its  virgin  forests. 
Beyond,  above  the  bluish  vegetation,  begin  the 
glacier-streaks,  and  high  white  outlines  cut  sharply 
the  pale  sky. 

My  guide  walks  with  a  strong,  heavy  step,  the 
step  of  the  mountaineers  of  Tibet — a  true  Chinese 
type;  not  the  delicate,  slender  Chinese,  but  the  man 
of  the  North,  tall  and  angular.  A  face  ploughed  by 
deep  wrinkles,  chapped,  tanned  by  the  sun.  A 


THE  HIMALAYA.     DARJILING.  69 

small  green  three-peaked  hat,  whence  descends  a 
black  queue  of  braided  hair,  an  immense  sheepskin 
cloak,  boots  of  green  felt  turned  up  in  very  long 
points.  Savage  ornaments :  a  green  ring,  and 
another  of  ivory  on  the  thumb  ;  the  left  ear  stretched, 
lengthened,  by  a  silver  disk.  He  walks  on  silently, 
with  his  regular  step,  leaning  on  a  great  teak-wood 
pike,  covered  with  pointed  characters  that  are  unlike 
the  Hindustani  letters,  complicated  with  a  sun-dial 
whereby  the  Tibetans  read  the  hour,  when  they 
roam  their  vast  desert  plateau  beyond  the  Himalaya. 
Sometimes,  with  a  motion  of  the  arm,  a  slow  smile, 
and  gutturals  which  are  not  human,  he  designates 
the  remote  mountains.  We  communicate  by  signs — 
he,  the  strange  Mongolian  man,  whose  race,  since 
the  first  days  of  humanity,  has  roamed  the  steppes 
of  Central  Asia;  I,  the  Parisian  tourist,  arriving  in 
this  land  after  the  long  voyage  over  monotonous 
seas.  What  an  abyss  between  his  race  and  mine ! 
Impossible  to  find  for  us  a  common  origin,  in  the 
darkness  of  the  past !  Impossible  to  understand  this 
motionless  face,  shut  against  me,  this  face  not  made 
like  ours,  in  which  the  soul  cannot  be  read. 

On  the  edge  of  the  road,  as  I  examined  with  sur- 
prise a  rock  curiously  carved,  he  twice  raised  his  arm 
toward  heaven,  toward  the  sun,  I  think.  This  time 
he  seems  to  have  understood  me.  The  same 
gesture,  before  a  row  of  long  poles  whence  hang 
white  rags  covered  with  sacred  characters.  These 
poor  banners  are  religious  emblems,  and  have 
innumerable  prayers  inscribed  upon  them.  A  wind 
blows  them  toward  the  sky,  and  all  these  silent 


?o  IN  INDIA. 

prayers  are  heard.  At  this  moment  they  hang  inert, 
along  a  narrow  pathway  which  goes  down  to  the 
miserable  hovels  of  a  community  of  lamas,  on  the 
side  of  the  great  valley.  At  its  entrance  a  lad,  a 
novice,  seated  on  the  ground,  is  reciting,  with  nasal 
tone,  prayers  written  in  Chinese  on  old  strips  of 
some  woven  fabric.  Emerges,  from  a  corner  where 
he  had  crouched  invisible,  a  yellowish  creature,  a 
lama,  who  comes  up  and  walks  around  us,  making 
profound  salutations,  his  hands  lifted  to  his  fore- 
head. He  is  horrible -and  pitiable,  this  lama,  really 
unnatural;  all  the  Tartar  traits  exaggerated,  the 
eyes  bloodshot,  no  chin  at  all,  the  mouth  lost  in  the 
flabby  fold  of  the  yellowish  neck,  the  expression 
brutish  and  rigid. 

At  the  door  a  row  of  prayer  cylinders,  which 
my  guide  has  had  an  eye  on  for  some  minutes. 
Furtively  he  goes  up  to  them,  and,  with  an  enig- 
matical smile,  one  by  one,  without  haste,  he  turns 
them  all.  What  is  he  thinking  of,  while  in  a  low 
voice  he  mutters  his  gutturals?  What  is  the  obscure 
emotion  which  has  dictated  his  act? 

In  the  interior,  behind  a  glass  case,  the  vague 
sketch  of  a  seated  Buddha,  not  calm  and  smiling,  but 
grimacing  with  a  Mongol  grimace.  Before  him  on 
an  altar,  offerings — poor  offerings,  not  sumptuous 
flowers,  as  in  Ceylon,  but  grains  of  rice,  some  water, 
and,  in  old  English  gin  or  whiskey  bottles,  some 
miserable  withered  plants.  All  this  tells  of  a  primi- 
tive and  barbaric  poverty.  On  the  walls,  very 
ancient  frescos  are  scaling  off,  ancient  bluish  paint- 
ings which  seem  to  have  been  monsters  of  the 


THE  HIMALAYA.     DARJILING.  7 1 

Mongol  imagination,  hideous  to  see.  "Darjiling," 
says  the  lama,  indicating  one  of  them ;  another  is 
Kunchain-Junga,  the  mountain.  By  what  mysterious 
association  of  ideas  has  that  grand,  simple,  noble 
form  a  shapeless,  complicated  dragon  for  its  sym- 
bol? What  kind  of  vague  emotion,  terror  or  sad- 
ness, did  the  view  awaken  in  their  ancestors? 

I  slip  a  few  annas  into  the  yellow  paw  which  the 
poor  lama  slyly  extends  to  me,  and  we  leave  the 
little  mud  temple,  in  the  shadow  of  its  floating  ban- 
ners, under  the  guard  of  the  thousand  prayers  which 
stream  in  the  wind,  clinging  all  solitary  on  the  edge 
of  the  great  misty  amphitheatre. 

This  evening,  all  the  space  is  filled  with  clouds, 
and  gray  vapors  drown  the  valleys  which  go  toward 
India  or  toward  China.  Far  away  in  the  west 
there  are  gleams  of  rose-color,  of  unknown  origin. 
Upon  the  black  sides  of  the  mountains  and  on  the 
crowded  peaks  there  is  a  slow,  monotonous  proces- 
sion of  gray  things,  creeping  upward  interminably. 
In  this  pale  mist  the  lower  spurs  of  the  mountains, 
crossing  each  other,  are  distinguishable  only  as 
superposed  walls  of  blackness.  And  this  produces 
a  vague  infinitude,  not  of  surface,  like  the  ocean,  but 
of  depth,  wherein  is  outlined  a  dark  world  where 
slowly  gather  incompleted  shapes,  spaces  of  shadow, 
confused  lights,  conjectural  forests,  ridges  that  cross 
each  other,  blue  rays  darting  across  the  void  :  a  gray, 
undulating  confusion. 

Upon  a  ridge  one  tall  twisted  tree  seems  to  mark 
the  world's  end,  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss.  Below, 
nothing:  a  vaporous  chaos,  wherein  vague  forms 


72  IN  INDIA. 

are  floating.  Literally,  one  seems  to  have  come  to 
empty  space,  to  the  world's  misty  edge,  and  only 
chaos  beyond. 

At  this  moment  I  hear  singing, — clear  childish 
voices  from  a  school  of  little  English  girls,  which  is 
somewhere  here  on  the  hill ;  it  is  like  a  memory  of 
childhood  coming  to  a  man  at  the  last  instant  of  his 
life,  with  the  darkness  of  the  Beyond  before  him. 
What  is  it  that  fills  these  moments  with  so  painful 
and  subtle  emotion,  why  are  these  sunsets  so  mys- 
teriously sad,  impressing  themselves  more  deeply 
upon  the  memory  than  all  the  grand  sights  one 
has  come  so  far  to  see? 

The  tree  shivers  in  all  its  branches,  and  the  gray 
vapor  creeps  higher  and  higher  upon  the  wan  back- 
ground of  the  sky.  And  now,  the  Sikkim  is  buried 
in  fog.  But  above  all  this  melancholy  confusion, 
one  remembers  that  the  great  crimsoned  summits 
rise,  that  they  rest  upon  a  bed  of  quiet  cloud,  alone 
in  the  presence  of  the  dying  sun. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM. 

NOVEMBER  29. 

A  SUDDEN  scene-shifting.  Yesterday  evening  I 
arrived  here  after  twenty-four  hours  on  the  Bengal 
Northern,  and  twenty-one  hours  on  the  Great  Penin- 
sular. On  the  road  there  is  nothing  to  see.  From 
the  cold  Mongol  regions  we  come  down  at  once 
into  the  sacred  plains  of  India,  through  which  flows 
the  ancient,  divine  Ganges. 

For  this  is  classic  India,  India  of  the  Indians. 
Here,  the  European  has  no  dwelling  place;  he  only 
passes  through.  He  has  transformed  nothing,  has 
established  himself  neither  as  merchant  nor  manu- 
facturer. This  city,  these  Hindus,  these  temples 
are  the  same  to-day  that  they  were  ten  centuries 
ago.  This  is  the  heart  of  the  Hindu  world,  the 
very  focus  of  Brahmanism.  Those  old  Brahmans 
who,  "after  they  have  seen  the  sons  of  their  sons," 
go  away  into  the  depths  of  the  forest,  there  to 
remain  in  solitary  meditation  on  the  substance  of 
things,  go  from  Benares  or  from  adjacent  parts  of 
the  Ganges  valley.  Upon  this  soil  were  elaborated 
the  six  great  systems  of  Hindu  philosophy. 
Twenty-five  centuries  ago  this  city  was  already 
famous.  Yes,  when  Babylon  was  struggling  with 

73 


74  IN  INDIA. 

Nineveh ;  when  Tyre  was  throwing  out  her  colonies 
along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean ;  before  the 
agora  of  Athens  resounded  with  the  eloquence  of 
her  orators,  and  the  temples  of  Greece  were  peopled 
with  their  marble  statues;  when  Rome  was  but  a 
peasant  hamlet ;  when  the  old  Egyptian  cults  were 
in  their  prime ;  then,  this  city,  great  and  famous,  was 
filled,  as  it  is  to-day,  with  white-skinned  Brahmans, 
in  feature  resembling  those  of  to-day,  even  then 
bowed  down  by  a  ritualistic  tyranny,  crushed  in 
upon  themselves,  absorbed  in  metaphysical  specu- 
lations, indefinitely  dividing  the  fine  spun  thread, 
arriving  at  vertigo,  and  in  their  hallucination  seeing 
the  solid  earth  give  way  and  sink  into  that  calm 
nothingness  whence  eternally  arise  the  appearances 
of  things.  Sakya-Muni  was  one  of  these  Brahmans; 
he  was  born  not  a  hundred  miles  from  here,  and 
after  his  five  years'  meditation,  he  came  to  preach 
at  Benares. 

To-day  not  a  trace  remains  of  our  European 
world  as  it  then  was;  it  is  altogether  dead,  finished, 
buried  in  the  abyss  of  time.  But  this  city  of 
Benares  remains  always  the  Kasi,  "the  resplendent 
city,"  of  India. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  throbbing  disk  of  the 
sun  rises  behind  the  Ganges,  twenty-five  thousand 
Brahmans,  crouching  on  the  river  bank,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Hindu  multitude,  repeat  the  old  Vedic 
hymns  to  the  sun,  to  the  divine  river,  the  primitive 
powers,  the  visible  sources  of  life.  Rome  is  not  so 
sacred  to  the  Catholic  as  is  Benares  to  the  Hindu; 
each  stone  of  it  is  holy.  No  pollution,  no  sin  can 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  75 

endanger  the  man  who  dies  within  its  walls.  Were 
he  Christian,  were  he  Musalman,  had  he  even  killed 
a  cow  or  eaten  its  flesh,  he  is  no  less  certainly  trans- 
ported into  the  Kailas,  the  Himalayan  paradise  of 
Siva.  Happy,  therefore,  the  man  who  can  die 
within  the  walls  of  Benares!  More  than  two  hun- 
dred thousand  pilgrims  come  hither  every  year  from 
all  parts  of  India;  among  them,  many  old  men  and 
many  incurably  ill.  When  a  man  could  not  come 
here  to  die,  often  his  ashes  are  brought,  that  "the 
sons  of  the  Ganges,"  the  Brahmans  of  Benares,  may 
pronounce  the  prayers  of  the  dead,  and  the  sacred 
river  may  accept  them.  "Kasi,  holy  Kasi,"  say  the 
Hindus;  "a  man  dies  peacefully  when  he  has  seen 
thee!" 

This  city  is  most  extraordinary  :  elsewhere  religion 
is  only  part  of  the  public  life;  at  Benares  there  is 
nothing  else  to  be  seen.  It  fills  everything,  occupy- 
ing every  moment  of  man's  existence,  and  covering 
the  city  with  its  temples.  There  are  more  than 
nineteen  hundred  of  them;  and  the  multitude  of 
chapels  is  past  all  counting.  As  to  the  idol  popu- 
lation, it  is  nearly  twice  as  numerous  as  the  human, 
something  like  five  hundred  thousand. 

Yesterday  evening,  on  arriving,  as  it  was  still  day- 
light, I  walked  as  far  as  the  river.  The  tortuous 
lanes  swarm  with  half-naked  humanity.  At  the 
entrance  to  the  sacred  places,  the  crowd  is  more 
dense :  white-faced  Brahmans  jostle  and  elbow  you  ; 
fakirs  sitting  on  their  heels,  naked,  covered  with 
ashes,  the  bald  head  lustrous,  the  eye  fixed,  thus 
motionless  in  the  universal  swarming,  seem  made  of 


7  6  IN  INDIA. 

stone.  Stalls  overflow  with  religious  objects,  neck- 
laces of  yellow  flowers,  rosaries,  sacred  stones,  strange 
emblems.  In  the  walls,  above  the  doors,  niches 
shelter  shapeless  ^divinities,  monstrous  gods  with 
heads  of  elephants  and  bodies  encircled  with  ser- 
pents. Here  and  there,  wells,  from  which  ascends  a 
fetid  odor  of  decayed  flowers,  arc  inhabited  by  gods, 
and  around  them  the  crowd  is  dense.  Upon  the 
walls  blue  paintings  narrate  the  Hindu  mythology; 
the  temples  are  girt  with  a  garland  of  obscene 
divinities,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  streets,  as  if  the 
temples  were  not  numerous  enough  to  contain  all 
the  idols,  small  altars  make  a  pedestal  for  the  fat 
Ganesa  or  the  shapeless  Kali.  One's  foot  slips  in 
the  heaps  of  decaying  flowers,  there  is  a  strange  mud 
of  ordures  and  sacred  jasmine,  putrefying  in  this 
Ganges  water  with  which  all  the  altars  are  sprinkled  ; 
and  from  the  glutinous  soil  rises  a  strange,  nauseat- 
ing odor.  In  the  midst  of  the  human  multitude 
monkeys  gambol  and  chatter,  clinging  to  the  roofs, 
and  cows  wander  freely  and  eat  the  flowers.  And 
you  have  the  same  sensation  of  bewilderment  and 
vertigo,  as  in  reading  the  old  Hindu  poems,  which 
make  the  mind  faint  with  their  accumulation  of 
myriads  of  millions  of  ages,  with  their  endless 
enumeration  of  gods  and  elements  and  plants  and 
animals,  whirling  and  intertwined.  All  our  mental 
habits  are  set  at  naught.  Imagine  yourself  to  have 
landed  in  a  country  where  the  inhabitants  walk  on 
their  heads.  This  race  thinks,  and  feels,  and  lives  in 
a  fashion  contrary  to  our  own;  and  one's  first  idea 
on  arriving  in  Benares  is  that  insanity  is  normal  here. 


BENARES.   BRAHMANISM.   HINDUISM.       77 

NOVEMBER  30. 

I  rise  at  five.  At  half-past  six  I  am  on  the  river. 
Fresh  morning  light,  white  in  the  horizon  as  liquid 
silver.  The  broad  Ganges  spreads  its  brown  surface, 
rolling  its  muddy,  choppy  current  between  desert 
stretches  of  sand  on  the  left  bank  and  on  the  right 
a  league  of  temples,  palaces,  mosques,  marble  walls, 
whose  long  line  disappears  in  a  rosy  mist.  Immense 
stairs  descend  in  a  grand  sweep  to  the  water's  edge, 
and  their  parallel  lines  make  a  broad  oblique  surface, 
all  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  In  this  light  swarm 
the  Hindu  people — pilgrims,  worshippers,  priests, 
who  come  to  perform  their  matutinal  devotions,  to 
adore  the  Ganges  and  the  rising  sun.  They  are 
there  by  thousands,  fat,  white  old  Brahmans,  seated 
on  stone  tables,  a  huge  straw  umbrella  over  their 
heads,  reading  the  sacred  texts  to  the  crowd  who 
are  dabbling  in  the  water;  brown  Sudras,  with  heads 
shaven  except  for  a  little  tuft  falling  backward,  supple 
in  their  dark  nudity;  women,  draped  from  head  to 
foot  in  brilliant  color,  who  pray  standing,  with  arms 
lifted  and  clasped  hands  stretched  toward  the  sun. 
As  my  boat  advances  over  the  shining  water,  the 
temples  and  the  crowd  are  more  numerous.  Flights 
of  steps,  four  hundred  feet  broad,  rise  in  enormous 
pyramids,  striped  with  their  thousand  stairs.  Mas- 
sive octagonal  pillars  plunge  into  the  water;  square 
facades,  great  carved  cones  of  red  stone,  cubes  of 
marble  whose  sides  are  excavated  into  niches,  chapels, 
succeed  each  other,  or  are  piled  one  behind  another: 
it  is  a  colossal  accumulation  of  stone,  lavished,  super- 
posed, in  geometrical  constructions;  as  in  ancient 


7*  IN  INDIA. 

Egypt  or  in  the  legendary  Assyrian  cities.  And 
under  all  this  architecture,  on  the  bank  of  the  old 
river,  a  hundred  thousand  Hindus  are  in  motion,  ful- 
filling their  religious  rites. 

For  four  hours  I  go  up  and  down  on  the  river. 
How  describe  this  inexhaustible  variety,  this  endless 
succession  of  forms  and  attitudes?  Upon  the  broad 
steps  white  in  the  sunlight,  between  the  piles, — higher 
up,  upon  the  terraces  and  upon  the  heaped  blocks  of 
ruined  temples, — still  higher  upon  balconies  and  roofs 
of  massive  stone,  under  a  forest  of  straw  parasols, 
the  same  swarming  of  brown  figures,  the  same  flutter 
of  simple  colors.  Five  nude  figures,  crouching  upon 
a  pillar,  abruptly  separate,  flinging  themselves  into 
the  water,  which  -splashes  up  in  every  direction. 
Behind  these,  Brahmans  with  lips  moving  in  prayer, 
are  waving  branches,  and  monotonously  strike  the 
water  with  them.  Below,  women  emerge  from  the 
river,  serious  and  upright  in  their  dripping  blue 
mantles  which  cling  closely,  moulding  the  figure. 
Crouching  on  a  high  marble  block,  isolated  from  the 
crowd,  a  man  wrapped  in  red  silk,  motionless,  in  a 
hieratic  posture,  regards  the  sun.  Then,  strange 
attitudes  and  gestures  as  of  maniacs:  two  women 
grasping  the  nose  with  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  striking  the  breast;  a  trembling  old  woman, 
her  poor  body  outlined  in  all  its  meagreness  by  the 
dripping  garment,  joining  her  wrinkled  hands  and 
whirling  six  times  consecutively.  Others,  with  a 
rapid  vibration  of  the  lips,  splash  the  water  methodi- 
cally, making  it  spurt  away  from  them ;  old  men  in 
attitudes  of  river-gods,  hold  copper  vases.  And,  as 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          79 

background  to  all  this,  behind  the  countless  conical 
chapels  on  the  stairs  themselves,  a  row  of  eighty 
temples  and  palaces.  I  notice  one  larger  than  the 
rest,  a  vast  rose-colored  cube,  sharply  relieved 
against  the  sky,  flowery  with  balconies,  covered  with 
arabesques,  notched  with  colonnettes,  pierced  by  its 
windows  with  arched  shadows.  It  flings  down  to 
the  water's  edge  its  grand  staircase,  which  stretches 
abroad  oblique  sheet  of  glittering  white;  and  upon 
its  highest  steps,  nude  men  are  straining  their  lus- 
trous muscles,  brandishing  clubs,  designing  heroic 
silhouettes  upon  the  marble. 

We  have  gone  over  two  miles,  and  the  spectacle 
is  the  same.  The  crowd,  the  architecture,  the  sun- 
light, seem  to  be  visions  of  some  opium-dream, 
where  time,  space,  and  all  that  they  contain,  appear 
enormously  magnified  and  multiplied.  Here,  as 
further  down  the  river,  at  the  foot  of  the  edifices 
are  platforms  of  wood  or  stone,  making  out  into 
the  luminous  water,  and  each  has  its  own  swarm,  a 
hundred  women  draped  in  white,  bending  over  the 
water;  figures  of  young  men,  standing  erect ;  Brah- 
mans,  motionless,  meagre,  with  salient  vertebrae, 
bent  over,  as  absorbed  in  some  doleful  reverie; 
groups  of  children  gambolling  around  funeral  piles, 
where  the  dead  are  burned ;  sacred  cows,  in  quiet 
outlines  against  the  white  of  the  marble  stairs;  and 
from  all  this  moving,  praying,  singing  multitude 
rises  a  great  noise,  a  confused  rustle  of  human  life. 
Everywhere  on  the  edge  of  the  great  careless  river 
there  is  the  same  swarming  life,  the  same  vast  wave 
of  humanity  heaping  itself  up. 


8o  IN  INDIA. 

Thousands  of  pigeons  fly  about  and  light  upon 
cones  of  temples;  gray  crows  and  great  vultures 
with  pendant  crops  pose  upon  bases  of  columns. 
The  air  is  noisy  with  the  chatter  of  magnificent  par- 
rots; the  smoke  ascends  from  the  cremation  of  dead 
bodies,  and  here  and  there  the  river  is  black  with 
ashes  that  have  been  thrown  into  it.  Great  patches 
of  flowers  are  floating  down  the  current ;  prayers 
without  number  are  ascending  to  Siva,  to  Durga,  to 
Ganesa,  to  Surya,  the  sun,  which  has  become  burn- 
ing. In  presence  of  the  great  river,  among  the 
pyramids  of  stone,  under  the  colonnades  of  the 
chapels,  at  the  foot  of  these  huge  edifices — strange 
as  Indian  vegetation  and  Indian  religion — swarms 
the  infinite  life  of  India.  For  a  moment  you  seem 
to  feel,  in  yourself,  the  overwhelming  sensation 
which,  repeated  for  generations,  modifying  the  struc- 
ture of  the  Aryan  brain,  has  translated  itself  into 
their  poems  and  their  philosophies. 

Behind  individual  and  perishable  existences  you 
feel  the  force  which  unfolds  itself  to  produce  all 
things  and  all  lives,  imperishable,  eternally  present, 
always  the  same,  amid  the  millions  of  deaths  and 
births  which  manifest,  but  do  not  diminish  it.  It 
is  this  force  which  they  adore;  it  is  the  cult  of  this 
force  which  is  the  substance  of  their  religion.  When 
once  this  is  understood  and  felt,  it  becomes  pos- 
sible to  understand  the  contradictions,  the  incoher- 
ences, of  this  complex  Hinduism,  where  a  fetichism 
as  of  savages  is  allied  to  the  profoundest  specula- 
tion; which  adores  three  hundred  and  thirty  mil- 
lion gods,  and  also  animals,  trees,  elements,  plants, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  81 

stones;  at  once  Pantheistic,  Polytheistic,  and  Mono- 
theistic, according  to  its  method  of  regarding  the 
Universal  Being,  his  principal  incarnation,  certain 
portions,  or  the  totality,  of  his  manifestations  in 
matter  or  in  spirit.  This  being  once  understood  it 
explains  the  insanities  of  their  imagination,  the 
strangeness  of  their  dreams,  which  find  expression 
in  those  interminable,  bushy  poems,  where  man, 
overwhelmed  by  nature,  has  for  equals  and  com- 
rades the  monkey,  the  bear,  elephants,  plants, 
insects.  In  them  all  there  is  life,  coming  and  going 
in  waves,  dying  and  being  born,  multifold,  infinitely 
diverse.  And  the  contrast  made  it  all  more  clear 
to  me  when  I  saw,  above  this  confused  multitude, 
above  this  inflorescence  of  temples,  springing  up 
white  against  the  blue  of  the  sky  the  two  minarets 
of  a  Musalman  mosque.  They  sprang  straight  up- 
ward, with  the  ardor  of  a  prayer,  with  the  impetu- 
osity of  a  cry ;  and  one  perceived  the  fervent  work 
of  a  simple,  resolute,  monotheistic,  and  ardent 
race. 

Noon.  I  leave  the  river,  and  am  driven  rapidly 
through  the  city.  Very  quickly  the  lanes,  the 
shops,  the  chased  copper  spread  out  on  the  side- 
walks, the  temples,  the  idols  in  the  streets,  fly  past 
us.  Then,  the  dusty  country.  At  the  hotel  it  is  a 
strange  sensation  to  come  back  to  European  tran- 
quillity and  reasonableness,  fine,  calm  order,  correct 
costume,  commonplace  and  courteous  conversation. 
You  fall  back  into  your  accustomed  place,  and  the 
impression  of  what  you  have  just  seen  disappears 
like  a  dream.  And  still,  a  certain  disturbance  re- 


82  IN  INDIA. 

mains.  If  we  see  a  man  who  makes  frantic  gestures, 
talks  incoherently,  conducts  himself  differently  from 
the  rest  of  us  in  all  respects,  we  have  no  hesitation 
in  saying  he  acts  like  a  madman.  But  when  you 
have  been  alone  in  the  midst  of  an  entire  population 
who  are  acting  thus,  you  need  to  be  very  strong  and 
sure  of  yourself  to  express  such  an  opinion.  Here, 
myself  and  my  neighbor  at  the  table  d'hdte  are  the 
exceptions.  You  doubt,  at  least,  if  there  is  a  rule,  or 
an  exception;  you  lose  your  bearings;  you  have  no 
longer  a  standard  by  which  you  measure  things  and 
are  accustomed  to  see  others  measure  them.  It 
impresses  you  strongly  that  our  European  ideas 
and  customs  are  only  local  ideas  and  customs;  that 
our  point  of  view  is  merely  different  from  the  Hindu 
point  of  view;  that,  in  substance,  one  is  as  valid  as 
the  other;  and  that  all  fashions  of  existence  are 
legitimate,  in  that  they  exist.  By  what  right  have 
I  said  that  the  normal  condition  of  this  people  is 
insanity? 

After  tiffin  I  hesitate  in  deciding  what  to  do; 
outdoors  the  sun  blazes  down  upon  a  country  which 
at  this  hour  is  entirely  deserted.  I  open  certain 
books,  that  I  may  seek  the  meaning  of  what  I  have 
seen.  What  do  these  rites  signify,  these  gestures  as 
of  maniacs — what  do  they  indicate?  After  an  hour's 
reading  the  primitive  sensation  recurs :  these  men 
certainly  must  be  mad. 

Here  is  the  daily  life  of  one  of  the  twenty-five 
thousand  Brahmans  of  Benares.  He  rises  before 
the  dawn,  and  his  first  care  is  to  look  at  an  object 
of  good  omen.  If  he  sees  a  crow  at  his  left,  a  kite, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          &3 

a  snake,  a  cat,  a  hare,  a  jackal,  an  empty  jar,  a 
smoking  fire,  a  woodpile,  a  widow,  a  man  blind  of 
one  eye,  he  is  threatened  with  great  dangers  during 
the  day;  if  he  intended  to  make  a  journey  he  puts 
it  off.  But  if  he  sees  a  cow,  a  horse,  an  elephant, 
a  parrot,  a  lizard,  a  clear-burning  fire,  a  virgin,  all 
will  go  well.  If  he  should  sneeze  once,  he  may 
count  upon  some  special  good  fortune;  but  if  twice, 
some  disaster  will  happen  to  him.  If  he  yawns, 
some  demon  may  enter  his  body.  Having  avoided 
all  objects  of  evil  omen,  the  Brahman  drops  into  the 
endless  routine  of  his  religious  rites.  Under  penalty 
of  rendering  all  the  day's  acts  worthless,  he  must 
wash  his  teeth  at  the  bank  of  a  sacred  stream  or 
lake,  reciting  a  special  mantra,  which  ends  in  this 
ascription : 

"O  Ganges,  daughter  of  Vishnu,  thou  springest 
from  Vishnu's  foot,  thou  are  beloved  by  him! 
Remove  from  us  the  stains  of  sin  and  of  birth ;  and 
until  death,  protect  us,  thy  servants!" 

He  then  rubs  his  body  with  ashes,  saying: 
"Homage  to  Siva,  homage  to  the  source  of  all  birth ! 
May  he  protect  me  during  all  births!"  He  traces 
the  sacred  signs  upon  his  forehead — the  three  verti- 
cal lines  representing  the  foot  of  Vishnu,  or  the  three 
horizontal  lines  which  symbolize  the  trident  of  Siva, 
and  twists  into  a  knot  the  hair  left  by  the  razor  on 
the  top  of  his  head,  that  no  impurity  may  fall  from 
it  to  pollute  the  sacred  river. 

He  is  now  ready  to  begin  the  ceremonies  of  the 
morning  (sandhya),  those  which  I  have  just  observed 
on  the  banks  of  the  river.  Minutely  and  mechani- 


84  Iff  INDIA. 

cally  each  Brahman  performs  by  himself  these  rites 
of  prescribed  acts  and  gestures. 

First,  the  internal  ablution :  the  worshipper  takes 
water  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and,  letting  it  fall 
from  above  into  his  mouth,  cleanses  his  body  and 
soul.  Meanwhile  he  mentally  invokes  the  twenty- 
four  names  of  Vishnu,  saying:  "Glory  to  Kesava,  to 
Narayana,  to  Madhava,  to  Govinda,"  and  so  on. 

The  second  rite  is  the  exercise  or  "discipline"  of 
the  respiration  (prajayama).  Here  there  are  three 
acts :  first,  the  worshipper  compresses  the  right  nostril 
with  the  thumb,  and  drives  the  breath  through  the 
left;  second,  he  inhales  through  the  left  nostril, 
then  compresses  it,  and  inhales  through  the  other; 
third,  he  stops  the  nose  completely  with  thumb  and 
forefinger,  and  holds  his  breath  as  long  as  possible. 

All  these  acts  must  be  done  before  sunrise,  and 
prepare  for  what  is  to  follow.  Standing  on  the 
water's  edge,  he  utters  solemnly  the  famous  syllable 
OM,  pronouncing  it  aum,  with  a  length  equalling 
that  of  three  letters.  It  recalls  to  him  the  three 
persons  of  the  Hindu  trinity:  Brahma,  who  creates; 
Vishnu,  who  preserves;  Siva,  who  destroys.  More 
noble  than  any  other  word,  imperishable,  says  Manu, 
it  is  eternal  as  Brahma  himself.  It  is  not  a  sign,  but 
a  being,  a  force;  a  force  which  constrains  the  gods, 
superior  to  them,  the  very  essence  of  all  things. 
Mysterious  operations  of  the  mind,  strange  associa- 
tions of  ideas,  from  which  spring  conceptions  like 
these ! 

Having  uttered  this  ancient  and  formidable  syl- 
lable, the  man  calls  by  their  names  the  three  worlds: 


BENARES.     BRA1IMANISM.     HINDUISM.  85 

earth,  air,  sky ;  and  the  four  superior  heavens.  He 
then  turns  toward  the  East,  and  repeats  the  verse 
from  the  Rig-Veda:  "Let  us  meditate  upon  the 
resplendent  glory  of  the  divine  vivifier,  that  it  may 
enlighten  our  minds."  As  he  says  the  last  words  he 
takes  water  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  pours  it 
upon  the  top  of  his  head.  "Waters,"  he  says,  "give 
me  strength  and  vigor  that  I  may  rejoice.  Like  lov- 
ing mothers,  bless  us,  penetrate  us  with  your  sacred 
essence.  We  come  to  wash  ourselves  from  the  pol- 
lution of  sins;  make  us  fruitful  and  prosperous." 
Then  follow  other  ablutions,  other  mantras,  verses 
from  the  Rig- Veda,  and  this  hymn,  which  relates  the 
origin  of  all  things:  "From  the  burning  heat  came 
out  all  beings.  Yes,  the  complete  order  of  the 
world:  Night,  the  throbbing  Ocean,  and  after  the 
throbbing  Ocean,  Time,  which  separates  Light  from 
Darkness.  All  mortals  are  its  subjects.  It  is  this 
which  disposes  of  all  things,  and  has  made,  one  after 
another,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  sky,  the  earth,  the 
intermediate  air."  This  hymn,  says  Manu,  thrice 
repeated,  effaces  the  gravest  sins. 

About  this  time,  beyond  the  sands  of  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  Ganges,  the  sun  appears.  As  soon  as 
its  brilliant  disk  becomes  visible  the  multitude  wel- 
come it,  and  salute  it  with  "the  offering  of  water." 
This  is  thrown  into  the  air,  either  from  a  vase  or 
from  the  hand.  Thrice  the  worshipper,  standing  in 
the  river  up  to  his  waist,  flings  the  water  toward  the 
sun.  The  further  and  wider  he  flings  it  the  greater 
the  virtue  attributed  to  this  act.  Then  the  Brahman, 
seated  upon  his  heels,  fulfils  the  most  sacred  of  his 


86  IN  INDIA. 

religious  duties :  he  meditates  upon  his  fingers.  For 
the  fingers  are  sacred,  inhabited  by  different  mani- 
festations of  Vishnu :  the  thumb  by  Govinda,  the 
index  finger  by  Mahidhava,  the  middle  finger  by 
Hrikesa,  the  third  by  Trivikama,  the  little  finger  by 
Vishnu  himself,  while  Madhava  resides  in  the  thumb. 
"Homage  to  the  two  thumbs,"  says  the  Brahman, 
"to  the  two  index  fingers,  to  the  two  middle  fingers, 
to  the  two  'unnamed  fingers/  to  the  two  little  fingers, 
to  the  two  palms,  to  the  two  backs  of  the  hand." 
Then  he  touches  the  various  parts  of  his  body,  and 
lastly,  the  right  ear,  the  most  sacred  of  all,  where 
resides  fire,  water,  the  sun,  and  the  moon.  He  then 
takes  a  red  bag  (gomukhi),  into  which  he  plunges  his 
hand,  and  by  contortions  of  the  fingers  rapidly 
represents  the  chief  incarnations  of  Vishnu:  a  fish, 
a  tortoise,  a  wild  boar,  a  lion,  a  slip-knot,  a  garland. 
There  are  a  hundred  and  eight  of  these  figures,  of 
which  not  one  should  be  omitted,  and  the  merits 
attached  to  these  gestures  are  infinite. 

The  second  part  of  the  service  is  no  less  rich  than 
the  first  in  ablutions  and  mantras.  The  Brahman 
invokes  the  sun,  "Mitra,  who  regards  all  creatures 
with  unchanging  gaze,"  and  the  Dawns,  "brilliant 
children  of  the  sky,"  the  earliest  divinities  of  our 
Aryan  races.  He  extols  the  world  of  Brahma,  that 
of  Siva,  that  of  Vishnu ;  recites  passages  from  the 
Mahabharata,  the  Puranas,  all  the  first  hymn  of  the 
Rig- Veda,  the  first  lines  of  the  second,  the  first  words 
of  the  principal  Vedas,  of  the  Yajur,  the  Sama,  and 
the  Atharva,  then  fragments  of  grammar,  inspired 
prosodies,  and,  in  conclusion,  the  first  words  of  the 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  87 

book  of  the  Laws  of  Yajnavalkya,  the  philosophic 
Sutras;  and  finally  ends  the  ceremony  with  three 
kinds  of  ablutions,  which  are  called  the  refreshing 
of  the  gods,  of  the  sages,  and  of  the  ancestors. 

First  placing  his  sacred  cord  upon  the  left  shoul- 
der, the  Brahman  takes  up  water  in  the  right  hand 
and  lets  it  run  off  his  extended  fingers.  To  refresh 
the  sages,  the  cord  must  hang  about  the  neck, 
and  the  water  run  over  the  side  of  the  hand  be- 
tween the  thumb  and  the  forefinger,  which  is  bent 
back.  For  the  ancestors,  the  cord  passes  over  the 
right  shoulder,  and  the  water  falls  from  the  hand  in 
the  same  way  as  for  the  sages.  "Let  the  fathers  be 
refreshed,"  says  the  prayer;  "may  this  water  serve 
all  those  who  inhabit  the  seven  worlds,  as  far  as  to 
Brahma's  dwelling,  even  though  their  number  be 
greater  than  thousands  of  millions  of  families.  May 
this  water,  consecrated  by  my  cord,  be  accepted 
by  the  men  of  my  race  who  have  left  no  sons." 

With  this  prayer  the  morning  service  ends.  Now, 
remember  that  this  worship  is  daily,  that  these 
formulas  must  be  pronounced,  these  movements  of 
the  hands  made,  with  mechanical  precision;  that  if 
the  worshipper  forgets  the  fiftieth  one  of  the  incar- 
nations of  Vishnu  which  he  is  to  figure  with  his 
fingers,  if  he  stop  his  left  nostril  when  it  should  be 
the  right,  the  entire  ceremony  loses  its  efficacy ; 
that,  not  to  go  astray  amid  this  multitude  of  words 
and  gestures  required  for  each  rite,  he  is  obliged  to 
use  mnemotechnic  methods;  that  there  are  five  of 
these  for  each  series  of  formulas;  that  his  attention 
always  strained,  and  always  directed  toward  the 


88  IN  INDIA. 

externals  of  the  cult,  does  not  leave  his  mind  a 
moment  in  which  to  reflect  upon  the  profound 
meaning  of  some  of  these  prayers;  and  you  will 
comprehend  the  extraordinary  scene  that  the  banks 
of  the  Ganges  at  Benares  present  every  morning; 
this  anxious  and  demented  multitude,  these  ges- 
tures, eager  and  yet  methodical,  this  rapid  move- 
ment of  the  lips,  the  fixed  gaze  of  these  men  and 
women  who,  standing  in  the  water,  seem  not  even  to 
see  their  neighbors,  and  count  mentally  like  men  in 
the  delirium  of  a  fever.  Remember  that  there  are 
ceremonies  like  these  in  the  afternoon,  and  also  in 
the  evening ;  and  that,  in  the  intervals,  in  the 
street,  in  the  house  at  meals,  when  going  to  bed, 
similar  rites  no  less  minute  pursue  the  Brahman,  all 
preceded  by  the  exercises  of  respiration,  the  enun- 
ciation of  the  syllable  OM,  and  the  invocation  of 
the  principal  gods.  It  is  estimated  that  between 
daybreak  and  noon  he  has  scarcely  an  hour  of  rest 
from  the  performance  of  these  rites.  After  the 
great  powers  of  nature,  the  Ganges,  the  Dawn,  and 
the  Sun,  he  goes  to  worship,  in  their  temples,  the 
representations  of  divinity,  the  sacred  trees,  finally, 
the  cows,  to  whom  he  offers  flowers.  In  his  own 
dwelling  other  divinities  await  him:  five  black 
stones,  representing  Siva,  Ganesa,  Surya,  Devi,  and 
Vishnu,  arranged  according  to  the  cardinal  points; 
one  toward  the  north,  a  second  to  the  southeast, 
a  third  to  the  southwest,  a  fourth  to  the  northwest, 
and  one  in  the  center,  this  order  changing  accord- 
ing as  the  worshipper  regards  one  god  or  another  as 
most  important;  then  there  is  a  shell,  a  bell — to 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  89 

which,  kneeling,  he  offers  flowers — and,  lastly,  a 
vase,  whose  mouth  contains  Vishnu,  the  neck  Rudra, 
the  paunch  Brahma,  while  at  the  bottom  repose  the 
three  divine  mothers,  the  Ganges,  the  Indus,  and 
the  Jumna. 

This  is  the  daily  cult  of  the  Brahman  of  Benares, 
and  on  holidays  it  is  still  further  complicated. 
Since  the  great  epoch  of  Brahmanism  it  has  re- 
mained the  same.  Some  details  may  alter,  but  as  a 
whole  it  has  always  been  thus  tyrannical  and  thus 
extravagant.  .As  far  back  as  the  Upanishads  appears 
the  same  faith  in  the  power  of  articulate  speech,  the 
same  imperative  and  innumerable  prescriptions,  the 
same  singular  formulas,  the  same  enumeration  of 
grotesque  gestures.  Every  day,  for  more  than 
twenty-five  hundred  years,  since  Buddhism  was  a  pro- 
test against  the  tyranny  and  absurdity  of  rites,  has 
this  race  mechanically  passed  through  this  machinery, 
resulting  in  what  mental  malformations,  what  habit- 
ual attitudes  of  mind  and  will,  the  race  is  now  too 
different  from  ourselves  for  us  to  be  able  to  con- 
ceive. A  negro,  a  Terra  del  Fuegan  savage,  re- 
sembles us  more  than  do  these  people.  The  negro 
is  more  simple  than  we,  nearer  to  the  life  of  the  ani- 
mals; but,  if  we  divest  ourselves  of  the  unstable 
acquirements  of  our  civilization,  we  discover,  con- 
cealed, yet  alive,  in  the  depths  of  our  souls  nearly 
all  of  his  instincts.  On  the  contrary,  the  Hindu 
soul  is  as  completely  developed  as  our  own;  its 
vegetation  is  no  less  rich,  but  it  is  entirely  different. 
It  is  stupefying  to  see  the  crowd  of  ideas,  according 
to  us  incoherent  and  absurd,  that  form  the  sub- 


9°  IN  INDIA. 

stance  of  their  minds.  Each  man  belongs  to  a 
caste,  in  which,  like  his  ancestors,  he  is  inexorably 
shut  up.  At  bottom,  the  idea  of  caste  is  as  the  idea 
of  species  among  animals.  The  distinction  between 
a  dog  and  a  bull  is  of  the  same  nature  as  that  be- 
tween a  Sudra  and  a  Brahman.  Hence  the  horror 
attaching  to  the  idea  of  marriage  between  persons 
of  different  castes.  Notice  that  to-day  the  castes 
are  as  numerous  as  the  trades  and  professions. 
Each  Hindu  is  born  a  priest  or  a  doctor,  a  scribe  or 
a  potter,  a  blacksmith  or  an  engraver;  and  he  be- 
lieves himself  lost  if  a  man  of  lower  caste  touches 
his  food  or  eats  at  his  side.  If  he  quits  India,  if  he 
crosses  the  sea,  he  becomes  a  pariah :  that  is  to  say, 
he  loses  his  relatives  and  friends,  and  can  neither 
buy  or  sell,  eat,  drink,  or  live,  with  any  person  what- 
ever. He  is  polluted,  and  nothing  can  efface  this 
pollution  but  the  supreme  purification,  the  purifica- 
tion "by  the  cow."  Having  given  large  sums  of 
money  to  the  Brahmans,  and  called  together  the 
men  of  his  caste,  he  swallows  the  four  products  of 
this  most  sacred  of  animals,  a  paste  made  of  the 
milk  and  butter  and  the  solid  and  liquid  excrement 
of  the  cow.  For  this  animal  is  one  of  the  high  in- 
carnations of  divinity,  inferior  to  the  Brahman,  but 
superior  to  almost  all  the  rest  of  humanity. 

Our  Hindu  has  many  gods,  strange  deities  not 
well  suited  to  give  habits  of  order  and  perspicacity 
to  the  brain  that  seeks  to  conceive  of  them.  In 
substance  they  are  almost  all  metaphysical  beings, 
so  abstract  that  they  escape  the  grasp  of  the  ordi- 
nary mind.  For  example:  Kali  is  "the  energy  of 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  91 

Siva,"  and  Siva  himself,  the  eternal  power  which 
persists  under  the  change  of  appearances.  These 
are  religious  ideas  which  could  not  be  considered 
anthropomorphic,  scarcely  capable  even  of  figured 
representation.  But  Kali  peoples  the  temples  with 
her  idols.  She  is  a  black  monster,  greedy  for  blood. 
Children  were  formerly  sacrificed  to  her,  but  now 
goats  are  immolated  on  her  altars.  No  cult  is  so 
pleasing  to  her  as  the  repetition  of  those  of  her  names 
which  contain  the  letter  M.  You  think  you  have 
grasped  her  and  understand  her;  but,  behold,  she  is 
transformed  ;  she  melts  away,  her  attributes  change, 
she  becomes  identified  with  Durga,  with  Parvati, 
with  Samunda.  She  was  black  and  hideous;  she  is 
now  seductive  and  beautiful.  Her  forms  are  end- 
less: an  enchanting  girl  of  sixteen;  a  nude,  head- 
less woman ;  a  stork ;  a  puff  of  smoke. 

In  the  same  way  Siva  is  a  giant  and  a  dwarf,  he 
has  a  blue  neck,  he  is  clothed  in  skins,  he  is  a  destruct- 
ive monster,  he  is  a  kindly  and  amorous  divinity; 
he  has  one  thousand  and  eight  manifestations  and 
a  name  for  each.  At  times  he  is  confused  with 
Vishnu ;  the  man  intending  to  worship  Siva,  wor- 
ships Vishnu  and  his  diverse  incarnations,  the  fish, 
the  halter,  the  wild  boar,  the  string.  The  Hindu 
also  worships  Ganesa,  and  if  he  writes  a  book,  dedi- 
cates it  to  him  as  the  god  of  literature.  And  how 
does  he  conceive  of  this  divinity?  As  a  fat,  white 
Brahman,  whose  face  ends  in  an  elephant's  trunk! 

When  the  Brahman  prays,  after  having  held  his 
breath  as  long  as  possible,  he  repeats,  up  to  the 
sixty-fourth  time,  the  same  mantra.  He  believes  in 


92  IN  INDIA. 

the  supernatural  virtue  of  simple  syllables.  "Am  for 
the  forehead,"  he  says  in  honor  of  Durga,  "/;«  for 
the  right  eye,  /;;/  for  the  left  eye,  Um  for  the  right  ear, 
Um  for  the  left  ear,  Rim  for  the  right  nostril,  Rim 
for  the  left  nostril."  Not  content  with  his  three  hun- 
dred and  thirty  million  gods,  he  also  reveres  animals, 
plants,  and  stones.  Sacred  cows  block  up  the 
temples,  bulls  roam  freely  through  the  streets.  To 
buy  grass  and  give  it  to  these  animals  is  a  meritori- 
ous act.  The  sacred  places  are  zoological  gardens, 
where  pigeons  fly,  where  cows  low,  where  monkeys 
chatter;  and  out  of  this  confusion  of  men  and 
animals  arise  strange  odors  and  a  marvellous  up- 
roar. The  monkeys  have  their  temple,  where  no 
man  enters  except  unshod.  A  rajah  on  one  occasion 
solemnly  celebrated  the  marriage  of  a  pair  of  orang- 
outangs: a  hundred  thousand  rupees  were  expended 
in  ceremonies,  fetes,  and  sacrifices.  The  male 
monkey,  drawn  about  the  city  on  a  car,  attended  by 
an  army  of  worshippers,  wore  a  crown ;  and  the 
rejoicings  lasted  two  weeks.  In  the  neighboring 
city  of  Allahabad,  where  snakes  are  gods,  the 
priests  and  worshippers  creep  up  to  the  summit  of 
the  hill  where  the  temple  stands,  with  writhings 
and  contortions  as  of  snakes!  Peacocks,  too,  are 
worshipped,  and  eagles,  tortoises,  crows,  crocodiles. 
"Pay  respect  to  dogs,"  says  a  hymn,  "and  to  the 
lords  of  dogs;  to  horses,  and  to  the  lords  of 
horses." 

The  same  worship  is  paid  to  certain  trees,  certain 
flowers,  to  black  stones,  to  round  stones,  to  stones 
used  as  flat-irons,  to  razors,  ploughs,  bellows,  and 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  93 

scissors.  It  may  be  affirmed  that  there  is  no  creature 
of  the  animal  world,  no  vegetable  or  mineral  object, 
which  is  not  divine  in  some  part  of  India.  In  the 
midst  of  these  mad  ideas,  there  are  intuitions  of 
broad  scope  upon  the  divinity  of  Nature,  on  the 
radical  unity  underlying  all  her  manifestations. 
"Venerate,"  says  the  Hindu  hymn,  "venerate  and 
honor  the  eternal  masculine,  Perusha,  who  has  thou- 
sands of  names,  thousands  of  forms,  thousands  of 
eyes,  thousands  of  heads,  thousands  of  arms,  and 
lives  for  ten  thousand  million  years." 

Our  Hindu  has  his  ethics.  An  inner  voice  dictates 
to  him  certain  actions,  which  it  is  meritorious  to  per- 
form and  criminal  to  neglect.  But  his  code  and 
ours  have  no  similarity  whatever.  Every  society 
rests  upon  a  certain  number  of  sentiments  common 
to  all  its  members,  which  check  or  direct  the  selfish 
instincts  that  would  tend  to  the  undue  development 
of  the  individual,  at  the  expense  of  his  neighbors 
and  of  the  harmonious  life  of  the  whole  group.  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  these  sentiments  vary  ;  and  as 
they  vary,  the  form  and  structure,  the  power,  and 
the  cohesive  strength  of  the  society,  differ.  They 
may  be  very  simple,  as  in  the  ancient  cities;  they 
may  be  very  complex,  as  in  our  modern  communities, 
where,  slowly,  through  the  ages,  extremely  diverse 
circumstances  have  superposed  upon  the  ancient  in- 
stincts a  great  variety  of  delicate  sentiments.  But, 
simple  or  complicated,  they  are  a  condition  without 
which  social  life  is  impossible.  With  the  Hindus 
ethics  have  a  different  origin,  it  seems,  and  a  different 
character.  They  are  not  a  code  of  duties  toward 


94  IN  INDIA. 

one's  neighbor;  they  are  nothing  but  a  series  of  pre- 
scriptions regulating  the  external  life,  actions,  food, 
and  dress.  Imagine  that,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  had 
disappeared  the  social  instinct  which  forbade  a  man 
to  betray,  to  lie,  to  steal,  to  murder,  to  do  violence 
to  women,  and  also  the  sense  of  honor  which  com- 
manded him  to  fight  bravely,  to  protect  his  vassal, 
to  follow  his  suzerain,  to  stand  by  his  comrade,  to 
sacrifice  himself  for  the  band  in  which  he  is  enrolled, 
to  keep  his  plighted  word,  to  be  solicitous  as  to  his 
own  reputation.  Suppress  entirely  religious  moral- 
ity, consecrating  these  sentiments;  and  retain  only 
the  religious  observances  commanded  by  the  Church, 
to  attend  Mass,  to  communicate  at  Easter,  to  con- 
fess, fast,  observe  Lent,  have  one's  children  baptized, 
submit  to  extreme  unction ;  now  multiply  these 
observances  infinitely,  so  that  they  fill  the  man's 
entire  life;  and  you  have  an  idea  of  the  Hindu's 
moral  law. 

It  is  not  forbidden  him  to  lie;  it  is  not  forbidden 
him  to  steal :  before  the  English  rule,  certain  sects 
commanded  assassination,  or  honored  Siva  by  an 
organized  violation  of  women.  But  if  the  Hindu 
sees  meat  eaten,  if  he  swallows  a  cow's  hair  in  a  cup 
of  insufficiently  filtered  milk,  he  is  lost,  condemned 
to  the  worst  transmigrations — to  the  hells  of  blood, 
of  boiling  oil,  of  reptiles,  of  molten  copper :  more  than 
that,  he  has  a  horror  of  himself,  for  these  commands 
and  these  prohibitions  are  not  addressed  to  the 
outer  man  only;  there  are  sentiments  corresponding 
to  them,  deep-rooted  by  an  observance  of  twenty- 
five  centuries — organic,  traditional  sentiments,  which 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISAI.     HINDUISM.  95 

form  the  very  substance  of  the  moral  nature,  en- 
during through  life,  entirely  independent  of  chang- 
ing circumstances  or  ideas,  real  categorical  impera- 
tives like  those  which,  with  us,  forbid  murder  and 
theft.  Intelligent  babus,  well-informed  as  to  our 
ideas,  our  sciences,  European  in  philosophy  and 
ethics,  have  been  seen  to  faint  dead  away  with 
horror  at  having  by  accident  tasted  bouillon.  In 
1857  the  Sepoys,  having  the  idea  that  the  cartridges 
which  they  must  tear  with  their  teeth  were  greased 
with  animal  fat,  revolted  like  men  in  desperation 
and  mad  with  terror.  Formerly,  when  the  English 
were  careless  about  observing  the  caste  rules  in 
prisons,  men  under  sentence  for  murder  would  let 
themselves  die  of  hunger  rather  than  touch  the 
polluting  food.  To  disobey  a  precept,  of  which  the 
origin  and  the  object  are  alike  absolutely  unknown, 
is  the  Hindu  idea  of  sin — the  abominable  and  deadly 
sin.  A  strange  sin,  moreover,  for  which  neither 
repentance  nor  subsequent  right  action  can  make 
amends;  and  only  to  be  effaced  by  the  mechanical 
performance  of  an  entirely  meaningless  act,  the 
repetition  of  a  syllable,  a  bath  in  the  Ganges,  a 
plunge  into  some  fetid  well  inhabited  by  Siva.  To 
touch  a  Brahman's  ear;  to  listen  to  the  story  of 
Ganga's  descent;  to  eat,  at  certain  fixed  times,  a 
mixture  of  rice  and  peas;  these  are  all-powerful 
means  of  redemption.  Every  Hindu  knows  the 
edifying  story  of  Ajamil,  the  assassin  saved  by  Vish- 
nu because,  as  he  was  dying,  he  called  for  his  son 
Narayana,  and  this  name  designates  one  of  the 
god's  incarnations;  or  of  Valmik,  the  robber  whom 


96  IN  INDIA. 

Siva  carries  away  to  the  paradise  of  Kailas,  because 
he  had  often  cried  out:  "Mar!  Mar!"  which  means, 
"kill!  kill!"  and  this  word  inverted  (Ram}\s  the 
name  of  the  great  Rama! 

If  we  look  at  certain  general  customs,  they  mani- 
fest no  less  clearly  the  strangeness,  the  contradic- 
tions, in  the  habitual  sentiments  of  this  people. 
Here  on  every  side,  in  the  streets,  are  birds  living 
unmolested  in  the  midst  of  the  human  crowd;  here 
are  blue  peacocks,  that  wander  through  the  city  at 
will ;  observe  the  hospitals  for  sick  animals,  where 
are  tenderly  cared  for  all  sorts  of  living  creatures, 
dogs,  gazelles,  eagles.  Is  it  not  a  sign  of  the  gentle 
character,  the  radical  goodness  of  these  Hindus? 
But  in  1857  they  outdid  in  cruelty  the  aborigines 
of  America;  and  though  public  human  sacrifices 
have  disappeared  under  the  English  rule,  there  is 
sometimes  seen  a  child's  dead  body  upon  an  altar 
of  the  hideous  Kali.  Love  is  unknown  in  India. 
Children  are  married  to  each  other  when  they  are 
nine  years  old,  then  strictly  separated  till  the  age  of 
maturity.  After  that  time,  the  woman  is  immured. 
Except  her  female  relatives,  no  person  sees  her;  no 
friend  may  make  allusion  to  her  existence  even  in  the 
most  remote  way.  If  the  husband  learns  that  she 
has  seen  a  kinsman,  has  spoken  even  to  a  brother,  he 
brands  her  in  some  way;  he  may,  if  he  will,  cut  off 
her  nose.  As  a  widow  she  becomes  a  pariah,  an 
object  of  evil  omen,  whom  all  avoid  with  disgust. 
The  married  man  is  not  held  to  fidelity,  or  even  the 
merest  external  decency.  Those  offences  against 
morality  that  we  surround  with  so  much  reserve  and 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  97 

secrecy  are  here  paraded  in  the  open  day ;  no  reli- 
gious law  requires  their  concealment.  More  than 
this,  there  is  a  recognized  caste  of  prostitutes  ;  their 
trade  is  a  sacred  duty;  and  in  the  south  of  India, 
every  temple  has  its  troop  of  bayaderes.  A  sect  of 
Saktists,  worshippers  of  "the  energy  of  Siva,"  "the 
force  that  develops  the  world,"  on  their  feast-days 
are  even  released  from  all  distinctions  of  castes 
and  ties  of  relationship.  Men  and  women  assume 
a  mystic  character;  they  are  no  longer  individuals, 
but  direct  incarnations  of  Siva  and  Kali.  "All  men 
are  myself,"  says  the  god  to  the  goddess.  After 
drinking  wine  and  intoxicating  liquors,  eating  fish 
and  meat  and  rice,  the  union  of  Kali  and  Siva  is 
celebrated  with  inconceivable  orgies,  and  the  wor- 
shippers feel  the  limits  of  personality  disappear; 
they  become  absorbed  in  Siva,  identified  with  "the 
soul  of  the  world." 

This  cult  is  "the  path  leading  to  the  highest  form 
of  salvation";  absorption,  that  is  to  say,  in  the 
Supreme  Existence.  He  who  follows  it  is  called 
Siddha,  the  perfect  one ;  he  who  knows  it  not  is  a 
pasu,  a  beast,  an  impure  being.  "For,"  says  one  of 
their  texts,  "there  is  salvation  in  the  use  of  intoxi- 
cating liquors  and  animal  food,  and  in  union  with 
women."  It  is  true  this  is  only  a  sect  among  the 
Hindus;  but  the  point  to  be  noted  is  that  these 
ideas,  which  to  us  appear  inconceivable  and  incred- 
ible, dwell  familiarly  in  their  minds;  that  the  Hindu 
does  not  possess  those  fundamental  sentiments  and 
ideas  which,  with  us,  would  oppose  to  notions  like 
these  an  insurmountable  barrier  and  throw  them 


98  IN  INDIA. 

outside  the  regular  action  of  the  mind ;  that,  more- 
over, certain  kindred  notions  enter  into  the  daily 
cult  of  them  all ;  in  short,  that,  between  the  Saktist 
and  the  ordinary  Hindu,  the  difference  is  one  of 
degree,  and  not  of  kind,  and  that  in  all  the  race 
there  exist  those  germs  of  mental  and  moral  mala- 
dies which,  in  certain  sects,  are  seen  in  chronic  form 
and  of  intentional  development. 

Now  these  are  souls  strangely  constituted,  dis- 
turbed, perverted,  vitiated  from  their  birth.  Into 
these  souls,  moreover,  there  now  fall,  by  chance  and 
in  abundance,  general  ideas  from  all  quarters,  like 
seeds  of  disease  falling  into  an  organism  already 
unsound.  Thousands  of  young  Hindus  prepare  for 
the  examinations  which  admit  to  a  public  career; 
and  they  fill  the  numerous  universities  of  India. 
They  study  Sanskrit,  Persian,  Arabic,  the  old  Asi- 
atic philosophies,  two  or  three  literatures.  They  are 
penetrated  with  the  English  ideas  which  are  in  the 
air,  everywhere  about  them.  In  the  higher  classes, 
their  professors  are  Englishmen.  From  their 
earliest  schooldays,  Addison  and  Macaulay  have 
been  their  classics.  Later,  they  attack  the  philoso- 
phers, Hamilton  or  Spencer.  They  read  English 
reviews  and  journals;  here  they  find  literary  and 
political  essays,  miscellaneous  news,  statistics,  re- 
ports of  every  kind,  which  describe  in  detail,  dis- 
sect, classify,  catalogue,  all  the  countless  forms 
of  English  life — intellectual  or  moral,  artistic  or 
religious,  commercial  or  social.  The  novel  gives 
them  English  types  of  character — laborers,  clergy- 
men, sailors,  young  girls,  squires,  business  men;  and 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.  99 

under  all  these  forms  lies  a  conception  of  life,  re- 
ligion, duty,  love,  death — not  merely  that  of  another 
race,  but  of  another  human  nature.  Not  only  are 
these  young  Hindus  nourished  upon  foreign  ideas, 
but  they  live  the  life  of  a  foreign  soul,  which  thinks, 
feel,  desires,  in  a  manner  contrary  to  their  own.  It 
is  an  operation  which  must  cause  anxiety,  this  in- 
fusion of  another  blood ;  and  it  may  result,  like  the 
crossing  of  very  distinct  animal  species,  in  the  pro- 
duction of  monstrosities  which  cannot  live. 

This  morning,  on  the  river  bank,  these  thoughts 
occurred  to  me  while  I  was  exchanging  a  few  words 
with  a  young  Brahman  whose  intelligent  and  amiable 
face  had  much  impressed  me.  This  youth  is  a  pupil 
in  an  English  school  in  Benares,  and  expects  to 
enter  the  university  at  Allahabad,  in  preparation  for 
the  civil  service.  He  has  read  Addison ;  he  is  to 
study  the  Upanishads.  Meantime  he  is  preparing 
for  the  mathematical  examinations.  The  question 
of  India  for  India  came  up;  he  is  interested  in  the 
congress  of  Allahabad,  which  asks  for  an  autono- 
mous parliament.  At  the  same  time,  he  belongs  to 
a  caste  which  he  must  not  quit;  he  worships  the 
Hindu  gods,  pronounces  the  syllable  OM  in  their 
honor;  he  holds  his  breath;  he  offers  flowers  to  the 
sacred  cows,  as  part  of  his  customary  devotions. 
It  must  be,  of  course,  that  European  culture  tends 
to  destroy  his  hereditary  faith  in  all  these  rites;  but 
let  us  not  forget  that  he  lives  among  Hindu  cults, 
that  every  morning  he  sees  the  multitude  devoutly 
splashing  in  the  river,  and  the  Brahmans  figuring 
with  their  fingers  the  hundred  and  eight  incarnations 

o  o 


ioo  ftf  INDIA. 

of  Vishnu ;  that  the  first  words  he  ever  heard,  those 
which  he  still  hears  most  frequently,  are  religious 
formulas,  sacred  syllables,  Vedic  texts,  and  extracts 
from  the  Puranas;  that,  in  his  presence,  his  father 
worships  the  five  black  stones,  a  bell,  a  vase ;  and 
that  this  spectacle,  incessantly  repeated,  imprints  on 
the  very  depths  of  his  being  a  stamp,  upon  which 
neither  reading  or  reasoning  can  have  the  slightest 
effect;  and  that,  hence,  all  which  seems  to  us  so 
extraordinary  appears  to  him  natural,  and  those 
ideas  which  to  us  are  contradictory  of  each  other  in 
his  mind  belong  together.  It  is  an  astonishing  in- 
tellectual and  moral  structure,  too  different  from  our 
own  to  be  to  us  sympathetically  conceivable.  With 
much  erudition,  a  European  mind  may  be  flexible 
enough  to  reproduce  for  itself  the  ideas  and  senti- 
ments, the  sequences  of  images  and  emotions,  which 
formed  the  soul  of  a  mediaeval  monk  or  of  an 
Athenian  architect.  This  is  because,  in  spite  of 
the  passage  of  centuries,  they  are  not  altogether 
strangers  to  us;  it  is  because  they  make  part  of  the 
same  human  group  with  ourselves ;  it  is  because  they 
were  on  the  path  of  that  slow  evolution  which  has 
now  reached  us — the  historic  wave  which  at  this 
moment  lifts  us  into  the  light;  they  had  their  share 
in  giving  it  its  direction  and  its  form.  The  vital  sap 
which  circulates  in  the  European  of  to-day  passed 
through  them,  as  that  which  nourishes  a  topmost 
leaf  was  elaborated  in  the  dark  roots.  Something 
of  them  survives,  and  makes  part  of  the  accumulated 
inheritance  which  the  European  generations  hand 
down  ;  for  the  present  contains  all  the  past.  Some 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          101 

few  men  can  understand  a  Greek  temple  or  a  prayer 
of  the  ninth  century.  Who  of  us  can  really  feel  a 
Purana,  or  a  Hindu  edifice?  Granted  that  there  was 
once  a  certain  tie  of  blood  between  us  and  these 
Indian  peoples,  the  crossing  with  black  races,  the 
secular  action  of  a  different  climate  and  different 
natural  phenomena,  have  destroyed  it.  Their  soul 
is  a  composite  of  a  mysterious  kind,  not  only  beyond 
our  experience,  but  outside  of  what  is  possible  for 
us  to  comprehend.  We  note  its  manifestations,  we 
perceive  the  externals — physiognomies,  gestures, 
rites,  prayers,  style,  art,  customs.  The  substance 
of  the  soul  is  impenetrable. 

This  afternoon,  some  expeditions  hither  and  yon 
in  Benares.  For  a  very  few  rupees,  I  have  a  ba- 
rouche with  two  horses,  a  coachman,  groom,  and  a 
peon,  who  accompanies  the  carriage,  running  with 
admirable  gravity.  These  people  are  naturally 
silent,  serious,  with  unchanging  faces.  The  trotting 
peon,  in  his  tight  red  tunic,  who  clears  the  crowd 
before  us,  is  absorbed  in  the  gravity  of  his  function. 
His  elbows  held  close  in,  his  chest  dilated,  his  head 
high,  he  runs — now  and  then  ejaculating  a  sharp, 
short  cry. 

The  division  of  labor  is  carried  to  a  great  extreme 
here;  there  must  be  the  coachman  to  drive,  the 
groom  to  open  the  carriage  door,  the  peon  to  clear 
the  road.  A  European  in  India  must  submit  to  all 
this  display.  It  would  be  monstrous  for  him  to  go 
on  foot,  or  to  carry  a  package  !  An  English  officer 
must  not  go  from  one  place  to  another  without  a 
whole  caravan  of  men  and  luggage  in  his  train.  Last 


102  IN  INDIA. 

year  in  London,  I  heard  a  corporal  relating  that  in 
India  he  would  ring  for  his  servant  to  pick  up  a 
handkerchief.  Many  gentlemen  keep  a  man  espe- 
cially to  take  care  of  their  pipes.  The  house  of 
a  civilian  requires  fifty  servants;  there  are  tailors, 
bakers,  washermen,  not  to  mention  a  crowd  of 
people  who  come  every  morning  for  the  day's  work. 
Thus  at  Rome,  the  patrician  had  his  army  of  ser- 
vitors, clients,  and  freedmen.  The  white  man  is  here 
the  master,  the  noble,  and  many  believe  him  a 
sorcerer.  Secretly,  however,  he  is  despised,  as  cere- 
monially impure,  polluted  by  the  daily  use  of  liquors 
and  meats.  In  contrast  to  this  serious,  quiet,  and 
wily  race,  he  appears  coarse,  with  his  noisy  laughter, 
his  athletic  sports,  his  many  requirements,  his  vigor- 
ous movements,  his  activity  always  conspicuous. 
His  wife,  seen  in  the  streets  unveiled,  outrages  all 
decency.  In  the  scale  of  being,  he  ranks  far  below 
the  Sudra;  a  Hindu  must  have  committed  many 
and  odious  sins  to  return  to  earth  as  a  European. 
At  the  same  time,  terror  and  respect  prostrate  the 
Indian  before  his  white  master,  who  seems  omnipo- 
tent with  his  strength  of  muscle,  with  his  wealth, 
his  weapons,  and  his  mysterious  inventions.  What 
does  the  Hindu  think  of  these  iron  threads  stretched 
across  the  country,  or  of  this  black  veil  under  which 
we  put  our  heads,  taking  aim  with  a  mysterious  box 
at  some  edifice?  This  morning,  for  nothing  in 
the  world  would  my  boatmen  touch  a  piece  of  my 
photographic  apparatus.  My  "boy"  awaits  my 
orders,  bent  nearly  double,  his  arms  crossed  on  his 
breast,  as  if  he  were  a  slave.  All  Sepoys  present 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          103 

arms  to  the  European  traveller.  You  respond  with 
condescension,  half  scornful,  just  moving  the  head, 
and  fall  back  in  your  barouche,  which,  for  thirty  cents 
the  first  hour,  and  twelve  for  the  subsequent  hours, 
carries  you  at  a  gallop  from  palace  to  palace,  from 
marvel  to  marvel. 

It  is  well  to  accept  one's  vocation  of  tourist,  and 
follow  your  guide  with  docility.  Mine,  who  has 
traditions,  takes  me  to  the  bank  of  the  Ganges,  and 
we  cross  the  river  on  a  barge.  This  brings  us  to 
the  palace  of  the  Maharajah.  Three  broad  marble 
courts  give  access  to  the  grand  hall,  furnished  with  a 
luxury  too  conspicuous,  half  Hindu,  half-European. 

There  is  nothing  to  see  here  except  the  gallery  of 
portraits,  the  ancestors  of  His  Highness,  all  Kshat- 
riyas,  of  the  warrior  race,  the  true  Aryan  conquerors 
of  India,  very  stiff,  very  pompous,  in  their  full  white 
robes,  one  hand  on  the  heart,  holding  flowers;  or 
else  armed  with  the  strange  weapon  used  in  the 
tiger-hunt.  One  ancestor  standing,  his  chest  well 
thrown  out,  like  the  king  in  a  comic  opera,  his  arm 
extended  and  one  finger  on  the  head  of  a  large  cane — 
recalling  the  attitude  of  Rigaud's  Louis  XIV. — his 
beard  spread  wide  on  both  sides  of  the  face,  poses, 
with  a  braggart  lordliness  and  an  air  of  consummate 
coxcombry.  At  his  side,  upon  the  same  wall,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  very  swell  and  very  insipid;  and  a 
portrait  of  the  winner  of  the  Derby  in  1865,  the 
great,  meagre,  classic  horse,  with  his  minute  jockey 
in  the  yellow  silk  cap ;  old  chromolithographs  that 
you  will  see  in  any  English  inn,  but  precious  bibelots 
here  in  India,  and  framed  accordingly. 


104  IN  INDIA. 

This  rajah,  who  gives  a  hundred  rupees  daily  to 
support  the  sacred  cows  and  to  keep  up  the  temple 
of  Siva,  was  present  in  1887  at  the  Queen's  Jubilee 
in  England.  It  is  said  he  was  much  impressed  by 
what  he  saw  at  that  time,  but  chiefly  by  the  great 
height  of  the  English  horses. 

Opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Ganges,  in  the 
vast  crowd  of  edifices  that  border  the  river,  is 
the  temple  of  the  monkeys.  There  they  are,  the 
tawny  gods,  frisking  over  the  porticos,  or  hanging 
by  the  tail  from  the  notches  in  the  stonework.  At 
sight  of  us,  a  great  tumult,  a  great  tremor  of  curi- 
osity;  with  supple  leaps  they  gather,  chattering, 
winking,  scanning  our  faces  with  their  anxious, 
piercing  eyes.  Piously  I  make  my  offering,  some 
grain  bought  of  the  Brahman  who  guards  the 
entrance  to  the  temple ;  at  once  an  angry  whin- 
ing, sharp  outcries,  a  scramble  of  hairy  bodies,  a 
confusion  of  sinuous  backs. 

As  may  be  supposed,  these  divinities  are  not  in 
confinement,  like  the  monkeys  of  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes.  The  temple  is  merely  their  headquarters, 
whence  they  sally  out  every  morning  to  infest  the 
city,  pillaging  the  houses  and  gardens.  An  Eng- 
lishman killed  some  of  them  who  were  stealing  his 
fruit;  thereupon  there  was  great  uproar  in  Benares; 
he  was  besieged  in  his  own  house,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  call  in  the  Sepoys  to  protect  him. 

On  Wednesday  is  the  great  monkey  feast ;  almost 
all  of  the  sacred  band  remain  in  their  temple. 
Devotees  come  in  crowds  and  bring  offerings — grain, 
cocoanuts,  and  fruits.  A  goat  is  solemnly  sacrificed ; 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          105 

an  exciting  spectacle,  which  makes  the  hairy  crests 
stand  on  end,  makes  the  teeth  chatter  and  the  eye- 
brows draw  together  in  a  frown,  above  the  sharp 
little  eyes. 

It  is  proper  to  visit  the  Hindu  University;  for 
this  Benares  is  a  very  ancient  centre  of  Indian  cul- 
ture. Formerly  its  teachers  philosophized,  and  stu- 
dents came  from  afar  to  receive  instruction  in  their 
doctrines.  Astronomy,  which  contemplates  the 
eternal  skies,  was  also  much  in  honor  here.  This 
morning  I  visited  an  ancient  observatory,  full  of 
mysterious  instruments  of  stone,  covered  with 
strange  writings;  and  my  mind  reverted  to  those 
obscure  ages  when  this  city,  unknown  to  our 
Europe,  elaborated  that  old  Oriental  science  where- 
by the  inquisitive  Brahmans  were  able  to  calculate 
the  sun's  declination,  and  the  revolution  of  the  stars 
around  the  pole. 

Sanskrit  has  continued  to  be  the  language  of  the 
pandits  here.  They  use  it  as  the  professors  of  cer- 
tain Swedish  universities  to  this  day  write  in  Latin. 
At  Benares,  the  old  sacred  texts  are  constantly  ex- 
plained and  commented  upon:  the  Vedas,  the  great 
epics,  the  Upanishads,  the  Puranas;  some  of  these 
Brahmans  are  known  to  our  European  Orientalists. 

The  English  call  Benares  the  Oxford  of  India, 
and  the  university  building  which  they  have  erected 
seems  brought  from  Oxford.  To  see  these  arches, 
these  square,  crenellated  towers,  these  portals,  these 
niches,  these  clusters  of  slender  colonnettes,  you 
would  think  yourself  at  the  doors  of  Oriel  or  Magda- 
len. Only  instead  of  the  old  granite,  all  exfoliated 


106  IN  INDIA. 

by  time  and  weather,  all  stamped  with  the  sadness  of 
the  wan  sky,  this  is  a  stone  glittering  with  light,  im- 
penetrated with  the  felicity  and  mildness  of  the  blue 
ether.  For  surroundings,  instead  of  monotonous 
lawns  and  the  fine,  tremulous  foliage  of  the  English 
trees,  there  are  tall,  stiff,  lustrous  palms.  Within, 
under  the  pointed  arcades,  there  are  groups  of 
students  gathered  around  their  professors.  But 
these  are  not  the  blond,  bold  heads  that  you  have 
seen  at  Oxford  in  a  hall  so  similar  to  this;  fat, 
gentle,  effeminate,  Oriental  faces,  and  slender  fig- 
ures draped  in  soft  garments.  The  pandit  Bapu- 
Deva-Sastri,  professor  of  mathematics,  is  my  guide, 
and  the  young  men  salute  us  as  we  enter,  with  a 
graceful  inclination  of  the  body,  the  eyes  downcast, 
lifting  their  clasped  hands  to  their  lips,  with  a 
repeated  gesture.  Before  a  blackboard  covered  with 
algebraic  symbols,  boys  are  seated  cross-legged  ;  on 
their  heads  are  velvet  caps  wrought  with  gold ;  the 
oval  faces,  the  long  eyelashes,  the  colorless  com- 
plexions, the  beautiful  curve  of  the  lips,  have  an 
enchanting  gentleness  and  seriousness. 

Further  on,  older  students  are  occupied  with  a 
lesson  in  philosophy;  two  books  lie  on  the  pandit's 
table;  they  are  Mansel's  "Philosophy,"  and  Herbert 
Spencer's  "Social  Statics." 

It  is  difficult  to  see  anything  in  Benares  beyond 
the  streets  and  the  public  buildings.  Letters  of 
introduction  give  you  access  only  to  European 
homes;  and  of  the  Hindu  world  you  can  see  scarcely 
beyond  its  exterior.  However,  leaving  at  this  point 
my  guide  and  his  catalogued  lists  of  "sights,"  I  was 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        107 

able  to  visit  two  Indian  houses.  The  first  is  that 
of  the  babu,  Devi-Parshad,  dealer  in  cloth  of  gold 
and  silver;  little,  white,  cool  rooms,  with  very  low 
ceilings,  and  entirely  without  furniture.  The  stone 
walls,  adorned  with  carvings  and  painted  flowers, 
are  recessed  in  square  niches  where  abide  red  gods — 
quadrupeds  with  human  faces,  the  monstrous  Ganesa, 
patron  of  commerce  as  well  as  of  literature.  Above 
the  gods,  English  diplomas,  awards  of  expositions, 
as  you  would  see  them  in  a  Parisian  office. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  room,  padlocked  doors, 
which  a  lad  opens  for  our  gratification,  keep  secure 
the  riches  of  the  house — fantastic  stuffs  woven  of 
precious  metal,  laces  like  cobwebs,  marvellous  silks 
of  the  "Thousand  and  One  Nights,"  sun-color,  moon- 
color,  which  are  cautiously  displayed  before  us.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room,  on  a  pile  of  cushions,  is 
enthroned  the  master  of  the  house,  effeminate  and 
nonchalant  of  face.  Seated  amid  the  silks  which 
cover  him,  he  is  taking  his  music  lesson,  and  from 
his  long  guitar  rise  the  Oriental  ritornelles,  compli- 
cated, dissonant,  sad,  and  eternally  the  same. 

On  the  ground,  in  a  corner,  a  scribe,  in  a  great 
green  robe,  is  bent  over  books  filled  with  cabalistic 
writings.  An  old,  shaven  face,  thin,  compressed 
lips,  an  aquiline  nose  supporting  spectacles,  the 
intelligent  and  austere  countenance  of  an  Alsatian 
schoolmaster.  He  shows  me  his  sacred  cord, 
which  proves  him  to  be  a  Brahman ;  I  have  already 
seen  among  men  of  his  caste  faces  singularly 
European.  Just  now,  on  the  shore  of  the  Ganges,  a 
young  man  had  the  prematurely  old,  thin,  fatigued 


108  IN  INDIA. 

features  of  a  Parisian  student.  Strange  power  of 
type,  that  thousands  of  years  are  powerless  to  de- 
stroy— the  same  in  a  Roman  bust,  in  thejldneur  of 
a  Parisian  boulevard,  in  a  Brahman  of  Benares. 

While  the  babu  winds  his  eternal,  plaintive  scale, 
this  old  scribe,  who  seems  very  learned,  demonstrates 
to  me  the  relationship  between  English  and  Sanskrit. 
He  brings  together  the  words  pitar  and  father, 
bliratar  and  brother,  dnJtitar'  and  daughter — well- 
known  parallels  which  are  to-day  in  all  our  gram- 
mars, but  very  impressive  here,  in  the  mouth  of  a 
worshipper  of  Siva,  who  looks  like  one  of  our  own 
people. 

Then,  we  go  to  see  the  dancing-girls.  Their 
dwelling  is  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  in  the  most 
populous  street,  in  the  midst  of  the  bazaar.  This 
endless  streaming  of  the  motley  crowd,  these  figures 
of  all  colors,  this  confusion  of  nudities  and  floating 
garments,  is  always  surprising.  In  the  middle  of  the 
street  the  human  current  flows  more  freely;  on  the 
sidewalks,  rows  of  men  are  seated,  carving  in  copper, 
stamping  bronze;  merchants  are  busy  with  their 
account-books;  others,  sitting  on  the  ground,  negli- 
gently abandon  their  black  heads  to  the  barber. 

The  street  is  tortuous,  very  narrow  between  the 
projecting  booths,  which  extend  out  from  the  houses, 
crowded  with  fruit,  with  copper  ware,  with  jewelry 
of  colored  glass,  and  embroidered  slippers;  and  it  is 
still  further  narrowed  above  one's  head  by  a  con- 
fusion of  terraces,  balconies,  statuettes,  verandas, 
and  wooden  galleries,  which  notch  the  irregular  strip 
of  sky.  It  is  an  interior  of  the  Oriental  anthill, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        109 

unchanged  in  centuries.  Such  must  be  "the  quarter 
of  the  shops"  in  Bagdad  of  familiar  tales! 

My  "boy"  opens  a  little  door  which  he  knows  well, 
and  we  step  into  the  half-light  of  a  low  hall,  sur- 
rounded by  a  quadrilateral  of  slender  colonnettes. 
There  is  no  one  here:  only  three  stout  little  gods 
sit,  half  visible,  in  their  niches.  At  the  end  of  the 
hall  a  dark  staircase,  up  which  we  grope  our  way. 
On  the  floor  above,  we  are  in  the  abode  of  the  danc- 
ing-girls. It  is  dark,  and  the  air  is  close,  in  this 
great  room,  with  its  thick  carpet  and  walls  hung  with 
embroidered  silk.  For  furniture,  there  are  cushions ; 
and  from  the  ceiling  hangs  a  very  rich  chandelier, 
extending  in  innumerable  branches,  tufty,  as  all 
Hindu  things  are.  The  atmosphere  is  perfumed  and 
makes  one  giddy.  On  the  floor  are  vases  loaded 
with  the  inevitable  yellow  flowers,  and  there  are 
some  perfume  boxes,  whence  rise,  in  spirals,  the 
blue  vapors  of  incense. 

Now  we  see  that  it  is  inhabited,  this  silent  chamber 
we  had  thought  empty.  Seated  on  the  carpets, 
resting  their  elbows  upon  a  balustrade,  three  women 
are  looking  icily  clown  into  the  street.  Our  entrance 
has  not  aroused  them  from  their  torpor;  scarcely 
have  they  so  much  as  turned  their  heads.  Bronzed 
faces,  very  pure  outlines,  the  eyelids  and  eyelashes 
singularly  long,  great  black  eyes  surcharged  with 
languor  and  voluptuousness;  yet  serious,  and  with 
a  certain  dignity  which  is  not  at  all  impaired  by  the 
nose  jewel.  This  immobility,  this  seriousness,  this 
Oriental  silence,  are  always  disconcerting.  Thus 
they  pass  their  days,  idly  reclining,  wrapped  in 


no  IN  INDIA. 

their  draperies,  half  asleep  in  the  darkness  of  this 
hall,  where  the  perfumed  vapors  rise  and  are  diffused, 
watching  through  the  fretwork  of  the  carved  wooden 
balcony  the  crowds  that  are  streaming  past  in  the 
narrow  street  below;  but  themselves  always  hidden, 
invisible  from  without.  Sometimes  they  make 
bouquets,  they  amuse  themselves  with  their  flowers, 
or  one  of  them  takes  her  guitar,  and  the  dark  room 
is  filled  with  the  rapid  scratching  of  the  strings — 
minor  scales  of  a  strange  rhythm,  indefinitely  re- 
peated, curiously  involved,  ceasing  on  notes  which 
are  not  final,  which  make  you  expect  something 
further,  a  music  strange  and  monotonous  as  their 
life.  This  is  the  existence  of  all  Hindu  women 
cloistered  in  the  zenanas.  A  life  like  this  should 
produce  souls  of  an  extreme  simplicity ;  but  why 
are  these  faces  so  wonderfully  serious,  and  the  great 
dark  eyes  full  of  a  passion  so  concentrated? 

Enters  silently  a  tall,  sly  Hindu,  who  talks  long 
and  low  with  my  guide.  It  appears  that  it  is  very 
expensive — a  nautch — one  must  pay  a  hundred 
rupees  for  it.  As  I  hesitate  upon  this,  it  is  explained 
to  me  that  the  dancing-girls  will  be  attired  in 
precious  stuffs,  costumes  which  have  cost  thousands 
of  rupees:  the  coffers  containing  these  festal  gar- 
ments are  brought  for  me  to  see.  Indeed  the  boxes 
are  full  of  most  beautiful  things:  Benares  silks,  all 
stiff  with  silver  stars,  delicate  gauzes  on  which  quiver 
specks  of  gold  laces  embroidered  with  jewels  and 
with  the  burnished  wings  of  scarabs.  The  thousand 
lamps  of  the  great  chandelier  will  be  lighted,  and 
the  dance  lasts  the  whole  night  through. 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        HI 

It  is  a  strange  pleasure — the  greatest  possible, 
according  to  the  Hindus.  There  is  no  festival,  no 
solemnity  without  its  nautch.  When  a  European 
of  importance  arrives  at  Calcutta  or  Bombay,  the 
great  native  functionaries  invite  him  to  witness 
this;  and  expend  vast  sums  to  show  him  four 
dancing-girls.  The  European  invariably  tires;  to 
all  Englishmen  who  have  seen  it,  this  spectacle  is 
an  incomprehensible  amusement.  The  foreigner 
accepts,  from  courtesy ;  and  goes  away  after  an 
hour,  sprinkled  with  the  perfumes,  wreathed  with 
the  flowers  that  every  host  owes  to  his  guest.  The 
Hindu  men  remain,  seated  like  so  many  Buddhas, 
cross-legged,  their  hands  clasped,  mute  and  motion- 
less; and  so  the  entire  night  passes.  Observe  that 
there  is  nothing  sensual  in  the  classic  nautch;  and, 
compared  with  this  dance,  the  most  innocent  of  our 
ballets  would  seem  free;  the  women  are  loaded  with 
draperies;  the  more  beautiful  the  stuffs,  the  more 
expensive  the  nautch.  Who  shall  explain  the  slow 
intoxication,  the  beatified  drowsiness,  the  vague 
torpor,  the  somnolent,  subtle  charm,  which  seizes 
upon  these  Hindu  men,  sitting  in  a  row  upon  their 
heels?  The  tinkling  guitar  goes  on  repeating  the 
same  sad  and  confused  phrase;  the  garments  of  the 
dancing-girls  flash  iridescent  hues;  the  draperies 
whirl  together,  then  separate;  the  gems  scintillate, 
the  arms  are  slowly  extended ;  the  body  swings  to 
and  fro,  or  stops  suddenly,  motionless  in  a  pro- 
longed shiver,  of  a  vibration  almost  imperceptible; 
heads  are  thrown  back  as  if  swooning,  wrists  writhe, 
fingers  stiffen  and  quiver ;  the  cithern  goes  on  repeat- 


H2  IN  INDIA. 

ing  its  slender,  melancholy  phrase;  and  the  hours 
fly.  It  is  a  pleasure  analogous  to  our  own  in  follow- 
ing the  slow,  graceful  curling  of  a  puff  of  cigar 
smoke,  or  the  gentle  motion  of  a  procession  of  white 
clouds  against  the  blue  of  a  summer's  sky.  The 
Me  is  lost  for  the  moment,  scattered  into  space; 
there  is  nothing  left  but  the  rhythmic  scintillation 
of  those  precious  stones,  the  soft  undulation  of  that 
smoke,  the  gentle  and  splendid  movement  of  those 
clouds. 

Such  is  my  poor  attempt  at  explanation.  Exte- 
rior resemblances  to  our  modes  of  being  do  not 
reveal  to  us  what  passes  in  the  interior  of  these  souls. 
What  effort  of  intelligence  or  of  sympathy,  for 
instance,  could  make  us  understand  the  fact  I  am 
about  to  mention?  On  the  I5th  of  July,  1857,  Nana 
Sahib  gave  orders  to  massacre  the  English  prisoners. 
The  men  having  been  shot  in  the  open  air,  the 
women  and  children,  crowded  in  a  bungalow,  were 
destroyed  b}'  repeated  firing  through  the  windows. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour,  the  cries  within  having 
ceased,  Nana  caused  the  dead  and  the  dying  to  be 
brought  out,  and  to  be  thrown  into  a  deep  well. 
That  evening  the  sahib  ordered  a  nautch,  and  repos- 
ing upon  a  sofa,  he  passed  the  night  satiating  his 
eyes  with  the  sinuous  and  serpentine  movements  of 
four  dancing-girls. 

I  did  not  go  to  see  the  nautch,  finding  it  de- 
cidedly too  expensive.  Besides,  my  curiosity  was 
somewhat  blunted.  Instead,  I  passed  the  evening 
at  the  hotel,  upon  the  veranda,  lying  in  a  chaise 
tongue ;  my  "boy"  at  my  side,  on  the  ground, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        113 

wrapped  in  his  rug.  How  calm  and  splendid  is  the 
night,  broadened  by  the  moonlight  which  filters 
through  the  green  masses  of  the  palms,  and  projects 
short  and  well-defined  shadows  of  all  the  plants! 
Overhead,  two  little  silvery  clouds  repose  alone; 
and  at  times  the  thin,  far-off  cry  of  an  insect  renders 
the  silence  more  profound. 

In  the  slow  smoke  of  the  Egyptian  tobacco  float 
to  and  fro  many  things  which  I  have  seen  to-day; 
many  images,  as  yet  well-defined,  but  destined  to 
lose  their  color,  to  disappear  gradually,  to  fall  into 
the  no  more.  In  the  nocturnal  peace  of  this  solitary 
garden,  after  all  the  fatiguing -daylight,  after  all  the 
tumult  of  the  Asiatic  multitude,  how  easy  to  sink 
into  the  revery  of  the  ancient  Brahmans!  This 
noisy  world,  these  luminous  visions  which  have  fol- 
lowed one  another  through  the  last  eighteen  hours, 
how  it  all  appears  a  dream,  an  exciting  dream,  from 
which  one  awakens  to  find  one's  self  tranquil  and  so 
alone,  in  the  silence  of  this  broad  night!  A  dream, 
the  vast  river  which  flowed  this  morning,  shining 
and  muddy, past  the  rose-colored  temples;  a  dream, 
the  black  and  white  multitude  swarming  on  the 
bank,  the  wilderness  of  temples  and  chapels,  the 
narrow  streets  beaten  hard  by  the  naked  feet  of  the 
Asiatic  crowd.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that,  at 
this  moment,  in  this  resonant  air  of  night,  the  soli- 
tary river  is  whispering  and  rustling  obscurely  on 
the  marble  stairs  from  which  the  crowd  has  gone 
away.  There  is  no  longer  a  person  there  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  river.  The  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  inhabitants  of  Benares,  having  quitted 


114  //V  INDIA. 

the  streets,  are  stretched  out  upon  their  braided 
mats.  The  Brahmans  are  at  rest  from  their  cere- 
monial observances.  The  two  thousand  and  fifty- 
four  temples  are  empty,  and  the  rays  of  the  moon 
light  up  the  innumerable  chapels  now  deserted, 
in  which  the  bronze  bulls  and  all  the  ancient  idols 
are  now  left  alone.  Yes,  it  is  difficult  to  believe 
that  all  this  is  real, — river,  palace,  people,  idols, — 
occupying  its  point  of  space  on  a  vast  globe,  eight- 
een hundred  leagues  in  radius,  covered  in  many  other 
places  with  other  human  mildew;  and  that  this 
globe — bathed  on  its  other  side  in  sunshine,  here,  in 
the  paler  light  of  this  gentle  planet — is  revolving 
very  rapidly  and  noiselessly  in  space ! 

I  have  before  me  two  sacred  pictures,  which  I 
bought  this  morning  in  a  booth.  They  are  very 
childish;  they  are  rude,  and  yet  carefully  finished. 
The  paint,  which  is  used  very  thick,  is  applied  upon 
a  layer  of  plaster,  with  which  the  paper  is  covered. 
The  personages  are  represented  in  profile,  but  the 
eyes  are  as  if  in  a  front  view,  like  the  ancient  mural 
paintings  of  Egypt. 

The  first  represents  a  beatified  Brahman  seated 
on  the  ground ;  his  plump  body  half-naked,  his 
hands  clasped  upon  his  crossed  legs,  his  rosary 
around  his  neck,  girt  with  the  thread  of  the  twice- 
born  ;  he  is  looking  upon  the  ground.  The  head  is 
shaven,  the  brow  bent  forward,  marked  with  three 
horizontal  lines;  the  moustache  white  and  heavy; 
the  eyes  half-closed.  There  is  nothing  Oriental  in 
the  face,  which  might  be  that  of  a  German  professor. 
Only  the  development  of  the  cranium  is  enormous, 


&ENAR&S.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        US 

and  the  expression  of  immobility  is  striking.  It 
appears  that  this  man  has  been  dreaming  thus  for  a 
very  long  time,  and  that  he  will  never  arouse  him- 
self. All  around  is  a  vague  green  expanse,  ending, 
far-off,  in  the  red  of  the  sky.  The  man  is  alone  in 
the  immensity  of  the  country. 

The  second  picture  is  finer,  illuminated  in  crimson 
and  gold.  A  Brahman  reposes  beneath  the  palms 
of  a  forest,  his  legs  folded  under  him  upon  a  rug  and 
draped  in  yellow  drawers;  he  is  still  more  plump 
than  the  other,  with  the  same  soft,  inert  flesh,  which 
lies  in  folds  and  fat  ridges.  The  face,  less  dull,  is  not 
weighed  down  by  meditation,  but  lighted  with  serene 
beatitude.  One  of  his  bare  arms  disappears  within 
the  red  bag,  where  his  fingers  make  the  sacred  fig- 
ures; the  other  holds  daintily,  between  the  thumb 
and  forefinger,  a  white  lotus  flower.  A  golden  halo 
proclaims  him  freed  from  future  migrations,  forever 
absorbed  in  Brahma;  at  his  feet  his  disciple,  in  the 
white  robe  of  a  neophyte,  with  hands  respectfully 
clasped  together,  listens,  kneeling. 

What  are  they,  the  solemn  words  that  the  blessed 
one  is  speaking  under  the  green  roof  of  the  palms? 
The  Upanishads  tell  us  what  they  are,  and  this 
evening,  as  I  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sacred 
books,  I  seem  to  understand  my  two  pictures:  I 
can  follow  the  meditation  of  my  first  Brahman ;  I 
can  hear  the  religious  discourse  of  the  master  to 
his  pupil. 

The  recluse  meditates,  his  eyes  half  closed,  his 
massive  head  inclined  toward  the  ground : 

"Hari!     Om!     This  light  shining  above  the  sky, 


n6  IN  INDIA. 

higher  than  all  else,  in  the  highest  world,  beyond 
which  there  is  no  other: 

"This  light  is  also  the  light  which  is  in  man. 

"All  things  are  Brahma.  I  meditate  upon  this 
visible  world  as  beginning,  as  ending,  as  breathing 
in  Brahma. 

"This  Intelligence  whose  body  is  spirit,  whose 
form  is  light,  whose  thoughts  are  true,  whose  nature 
is  like  the  ether,  omnipresent  and  invisible,  from 
whom  proceed  all  works,  all  desires,  all  sweet  per- 
fumes ;  he  who  envelops  all  things,  who  never  speaks, 
who  is  never  understood  : 

"He  is  also  the  Me  within  my  heart,  smaller  than 
a  grain  of  rice,  smaller  than  a  mustard  seed,  smaller 
than  the  kernel  of  a  mustard  seed ; 

"He  is  also  the  Me  within  my  heart,  greater  than 
the  earth, greater  than  the  sky, greater  than  all  worlds. 

"As  fire,  the  element,  after  it  has  entered  the 
world,  while  remaining  one,  becomes  many,  accord- 
ing to  what  it  burns,  so  the  one  Existence  at  the 
bottom  of  all  things  becomes  diverse,  according  to 
that  which  he  penetrates,  and  he  also  exists  with- 
out, in  appearances  of  things. 

"He  is  the  eternal  thinker,  whose  thoughts  are  not 
eternal;  who,  although  himself  but  one,  satisfies  the 
desires  of  all.  The  wise,  who  recognize  him  in  the 
depth  of  their  own  Me,  eternal  peace  is  with  them, 
but  not  with  others. 

"In  him  does  not  shine  the  sun,  nor  the  moon,  nor 
the  stars,  nor  the  lightning,  still  less  this  fire.  When 
he  shines,  all  shines  after  him,  by  his  light  all  things 
are  enlightened.  .  . 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        117 

"Beyond  the  world  is  the  Undeveloped;  beyond 
the  Undeveloped,  there  is  nothing;  this  is  the  end, 
the  limit. 

"This  Being  is  concealed  in  all  things,  and  is  not 
visible  on  the  outside,  but  the  subtle  seers  perceive 
him  by  their  acute  and  subtle  intelligence. 

"He  who  has  known  That  which  no  man  can  hear 
or  touch,  or  taste,  or  feel;  which  has  no  form,  which 
does  not  pass  away,  eternal,  without  beginning, 
without  end,  unalterable;  that  man  is  saved  from 
the  jaws  of  death. 

"The  wise  man  who  knows  this  Being,  as  bodiless 
among  bodies,  as  immutable  among  things  that 
change,  as  omnipresent,  this  wise  man  is  freed  from 
grief. 

"But  he  who  is  not  calm  and  subdued,  whose  spirit 
is  not  in  tranquillity,  he  will  never  know  this  Being. 

"Who  knows  where  he  dwells,  He  to  whom  Brah- 
mansand  Kshatriyas  are  only  food,*  to  whom  death 
itself  is  but  an  aliment?" 

Thus  goes  on  the  revery  of  the  recluse,  on  his 
way  toward  the  perfect  condition.  He  has  not  yet 
attained  it,  for  he  thinks;  and  immobility  is  not  yet 
established  in  his  brain.  When  the  five  "instruments 
of  knowledge"  (the  five  senses)  are  inert,  when  the 
mind  acts  no  longer,  then  the  man  is  delivered. 
Then  the  qualified  Brahma  which  is  himself,  enfran- 
chised from  mode,  change,  and  illusion,  again  be- 
comes the  neuter  Brahma,  the  absolute,  "which  is 
neither  cause  nor  effect,  nor  this,  nor  that,  nor  past, 
nor  future."  Formerly,  polluted  by  ignorance,  the 
*  In  whom  are  absorbed  the  races  and  generations. 


Il8  IN  INDIA. 

man  manifested  himself  in  appearances.  Now  "he 
is  as  pure  water  poured  into  pure  water,  remaining 
the  same."  As  a  wave  of  the  sea,  losing  its  form 
and  its  impulse,  sinks  into  the  sombre  depths  of  the 
motionless  waters,  so  the  man,  emptied  of  the  desires 
and  emotions  and  thoughts  which  made  up  his  per- 
sonality, sinks,  disappears,  in  the  calm,  black  depths 
of  being. 

This  is  the  same  doctrine  which  the  Brahman  with 
the  golden  halo,  seated  under  the  palm-trees,  unveils 
to  his  kneeling  disciple,  and  the  following  story,* 
also  from  the  old  Upanishads,  may  serve  as  a  com- 
mentary upon  my  second  picture: 

"Hari!  Om !  In  those  days  lived  Svetaketu 
Aruneya.  His  father  Uddalaka  said  to  him :  'Sva- 
taketu,  go  now  to  school,  for  there  is  no  one  of  our 
race,  my  beloved,  who,  not  having  studied  the 
Vedas,  is  Brahman  by  race  only.' 

"Having  begun  his  training  at  the  age  of  twelve, 
Svetaketu  returned  to  his  father  when  he  was  twenty- 
four,  having  studied  the  Vedas,  vain,  believing  him- 
self very  learned,  and  proud. 

"His  father  said  to  him  :  'Svetaketu,  since  thou  art 
so  vain,  hast  thou  ever  sought  that  instruction  where- 
by we  learn  to  hear  what  is  not  audible,  to  see  what 
is  invisible,  to  understand  that  which  is  incompre- 
hensible?' 

''What  is  this  instruction,  my  lord?'  the  young 
man  asked. 

*The  word  Upanishad  indicates,  according  to  Max  MUller,  the 
attitude  of  the  disciple,  with  hands  clasped,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
master, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        119 

"The  father  replied  :  'My  dear  son,  as,  from  a  piece 
of  earth,  we  know  all  earth — diversities  being  but 
names  and  arising  from  language,  the  truth  being 
that  all  these  things  are  earth — likewise,  my  dear 
son,  is  that  which  we  learn  by  this  instruction.' 

"The  son  said  :  'Surely  these  venerable  men  know 
it  not.  For  if  they  had  known,  why  should  they 
not  have  taught  it  to  me?  Instruct  me  then,  my 
lord!' 

'  'So  be  it,'  said  the  father. 

"Then,  in  the  forest,  the  disciple  kneels,  clasps  his 
hands,  and  remains  motionless.  The  father,  seated 
on  the  ground,  holding  in  his  left  hand  the  slender 
stem  of  the  lotus,  speaks  as  follows: 

'  'In  the  beginning,  my  dear  son,  there  was  only 
that  which  is;  that  alone  and  nothing  second. 

"  'Others  say  that  in  the  beginning  there  Avas  only 
that  which  is  not,  alone ;  and  that  from  that  which 
is  not  came  forth  that  which  is. 

'  'But  how  could  this  be  so,  my  dear  son?  How 
could  that  which  is  come  forth  from  that  which  is 
not?  No;  only  that  which  is  existed  in  the  begin- 
ning; that  only,  and  nothing  second  (that  is  to  say, 
since  there  is  something  rather  than  nothing,  being 
exists  from  all  eternity). 

"  'And  That  thought :  "May  I  be  many !  May  I 
extend  myself!"  And  from  him  came  forth  fire. 

'  'And  the  fire  thought:  "May  I  become  many! 
May  I  spread !"  And  from  it  came  forth  water. 

'  'This  is  why  we  see  that  when  a  man  is  warm,  he 
perspires.  For  water  appears  upon  his  body  and 
it  comes  from  fire, 


120  IN  INDIA. 

"  'And  the  water  thought :  "May  I  become  many! 
May  I  spread !"  And  from  the  water  came  forth 
earth,  all  solid  things,  and  food.'  ' 

In  the  five  subsequent  Khandas,  the  disciple  learns 
that  all  things  are  made  from  the  union  of  fire, 
water,  and  earth.  "In  these  things  also  man  has 
his  root.  'By  means  of  digested  food,  this  scion,  the 
body,  is  formed  and  grows.  And  what  could  be  its 
root  except  the  earth  and  food?  And  since  earth 
and  food  are  scions,  seek  their  root.  It  is  water. 
And  the  root  of  water  is  fire.  And  the  fire  is  also 
a  scion.  And  its  root  is  the  True  One. 

'  'Yes,  all  things  have  their  root  and  dwelling- 
place,  and  place  of  rest  in  the  True  One. 

"  'When  a  man  leaves  this  world,  his  speech  is  ab- 
sorbed into  his  mind,  his  mind  into  his  breath,  his 
breath  into  heat,  heat  into  the  most  elevated  of 
beings. 

"  'And  this  thing,  this  subtle  essence,  the  root 
of  all — in  this,  all  that  exists  has  its  being.  It  is 
the  True.  It  is  the  Being;  and  thou  thyself,  O 
Svetaketu  !  art  this  Being.' 

"  'My  lord,  deign  to  instruct  me  further,'  said  the 
son. 

'  'So  be  it,'  the  father  answered. 
'  'The  rivers,  my  son,  flow,  some  to  the  East,  as 
the  Ganges,  others  to  the  West,  as  the  Sindhu. 

'They  go  from  the  sea  to  the  sea  (that  is,  they 
rise  from  it  as  clouds,  and  return  to  it  as  rivers). 
They  again  become  truly  the  sea.  And  as  these 
rivers,  when  they  are  in  the  sea,  no  longer  say :  "I 
am  this  river,  or  I  am  that  river";  so,  my  son,  all 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        121 

creatures,  when  they  go  forth  out  of  the  True,  know 
not  that  they  go  forth  out  of  the  True. 

'  'In  this  thing,  this  subtle  essence,  all  that  exists 
has  its  being.  It  is  the  True,  it  is  Being,  and  thou 
thyself,  O  Svetaketu,  art  this  Being.' 

'  'My  lord,  deign  to  instruct  me  further,'  says  the 
son. 

'  'So  be  it,'  replies  the  father.* 

'  'A  man  was  carried  away  from  his  own  country 
by  robbers.  His  eyes  being  bandaged,  he  was  led 
into  a  forest,  full  of  terrors  and  dangers.  And  not 
knowing  where  he  was,  he  began  to  weep,  hoping  to 
be  delivered  from  his  bonds.  Then  a  passer-by  had 
pity  upon  him,  cut  his  bonds,  and  sent  him  back 
rejoicing,  to  his  own  country. 

'  'Our  country  is  Being,  the  king  of  the  world. 
This  body,  made  of  three  elements,  fire,  water,  and 
earth,  subject  to  cold  and  heat,  is  a  forest  in  which  we 
wander.  And  the  bandages  upon  our  eyes  are  our 
desires  for  many  things,  real  and  unreal,  our  wives, 
our  children,  our  cattle;  and  the  robbers  who  have 
brought  us  into  this  forest  are  our  actions.  (The 
actions  of  preceding  life  which  have  caused  us  trans- 
migration, instead  of  the  absorption  into  Brahma). 

'Then  we  weep,  and  we  say:  "I  am  the  son  of 
such  a  one,  I  am  happy,  I  am  sad,  I  am  foolish,  I 
am  wise,  I  am  righteous,  I  have  been  born,  I  die." 
These  are  the  bonds  which  fetter  us  (individuality). 
Sometimes  we  meet  a  man  who  knows  the  Me  of 
Brahma,  and  whose  bonds  have  been  broken.  He 
has  pity  on  us,  and  instructs  us  that  we  are  not  the 
*  Here  the  text  has  been  expanded  by  a  commentator. 


122  IN  INDIA. 

son  of  such  a  one,  that  we  are  not  happy  or  sad, 
wise  or  foolish,  that  we  have  not  been  born  and  do 
not  die;  but  are  only  That  which  Is. 

"  'In  this  thing,  this  subtle  essence,  all  that  exists 
has  its  being.  It  is  the  Being,  the  True,  and  thou 
thyself,  O  Svetaketu !  art  this  Being.' 

"And  Svetaketu  understood  what  his  father  said; 
yes,  he  understood  it. 

"And  knowing  him  who  is  one,  who  animates  all 
germs,  in  whom  all  unites  and  all  separates,  the 
adorable  lord,  the  dispenser  of  benefits,  Svetaketu 
entered  forever  into  peace. ' ' 

This  pantheism,  which  was  taught  for  two  thou- 
sand years,  is  not  the  doctrine  of  an  isolated 
thinker,  or  of  a  school.  It  describes  in  philosophic 
language  the  special  vision  of  the  world  which,  more 
or  less  clear,  has  been  that  of  all  this  race.  To 
understand  it,  observe  the  spirit  of  another  human 
variety,  and,  together  with  these  old  philosophic 
poems  of  the  Brahmans,  read  the  Bible.  What  do 
you  find  there?  It  is  lyric  poetry:  angers,  despairs, 
enthusiasms,  hatreds,  violent  emotions,  shocks  of  all 
kinds;  all  possible  feelings  of  the  soul,  expressed  in 
brusque  metaphors  and  brilliant  imagery,  in  an 
abrupt  style,  in  a  simple  language,  incapable  of  fol- 
lowing the  undulations  of  speculative  thought,  but 
exactly  made  to  render  an  emotion  by  a  cry.  Now, 
what  is  the  effect  upon  man  of  lasting  and  vehement 
emotion,  but  to  cause  him  to  fall  back  upon  his  own 
thoughts?  When  he  suffers,  when  he  hates,  he  is 
occupied  altogether  with  himself;  he  perceives  him- 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        123 

self  as  distinct  from  the  exterior  world  which  causes 
him  suffering.  In  an  emotional  soul,  the  coherent 
Me  declares  itself,  stands  alone;  and  when  the  man 
essays  to  conceive  of  that  which  stands  behind  all 
things,  he  conceives  of  it  also  as  a  Me,  distinct  and 
omnipotent. 

With  these  Brahmans  the  opposite  faculties  have 
arrived  at  opposite  results.  What  do  we  find  in  the 
Vedas?  Poems  upon  Nature,  hymns  to  the  Sun, 
the  Rain,  the  Clouds,  Fire,  the  Sky,  the  Earth,  the 
Wind,  the  Storm,  the  Dawn  of  Day.  No  subjective, 
personal  poetry.  Instead  of  permanent  emotions, 
there  is  a  changeful  play  of  images.  The  soul  is  no 
longer  a  distinct  being,  but  a  reflection  of  nature, 
a  changeful  reflection  of  its  events  which  change. 
It  becomes  the  cloud  floating  in  the  blue;  it  be- 
comes the  sun  which  rises  in  the  East.  When  an 
emotion  penetrates  the  soul,  it  does  but  pass  through 
it.  It  does  not  remain ;  it  does  not  develop  slowly 
into  interior,  concentrated  passion.  It  is  at  once 
projected  beyond  the  man  himself,  who  thus  lends 
to  the  external  world  his  ever-changing  and  fleeting 
emotions.  If  he  is  joyous,  it  is  the  gayety  of  Agni, 
sparkling  amid  the  vine  branches;  if  he  is  timorous, 
it  is  the  timidity  of  the  Auroras  veiling  themselves 
in  cloud,  like  blushing  girls.  In  short,  instead  of 
concentrating  himself  in  one  substance — a  Me,  who 
wills,  acts,  bleeds,  cries  out — the  Vedic  poet  is  scat- 
tered abroad  through  the  world ;  he  diffuses  himself 
in  things,  his  soul  is  filled  with  the  forms,  sounds, 
colors  of  nature,  and  nature  is  animated  with  his 
thoughts  and  desires. 


124  IN  INDIA. 

These  living  and  divine  forces  of  nature  he  adores; 
but  there  is  something  peculiar  in  his  polytheism. 
Indra,  Varuna,  Agni,  Surya,  are  souls,  elemental 
souls — not  rigidly  shut  into  a  few  fixed  attributes, 
not  conceived  of  as  distinct  unchanging  personalities, 
but  varying,  floating,  capable  of  reciprocal  trans- 
formations. This  Aurora  is  also  the  Sun,  the  Sun 
is  also  Fire,  Fire  is  also  Lightning,  Lightning  is 
Tempest,  Tempest  is  Rain.  Varuna  becomes 
Agni,  Agni  becomes  Surya.  They  all  unite,  blend, 
mutually  interpenetrate.  There  is  no  permanence, 
either  in  the  human  person,  who  does  not  conceive 
of  himself  as  a  person,  or  in  the  external  world, 
which  is  all  change.  Nothing  remains  in  the  whole 
universe  but  a  whirl  of  ephemeral  thoughts  and 
forms,  an  ever-flowing  stream.  The  germ  of  this 
conception  is  in  the  Vedas,  but  it  is  in  the  old  philo- 
sophic poems  of  the  Brahmans  that  it  grows, 
matures,  and  attains  its  full  development.  In  read- 
ing these  poems,  we  are  stupefied  at  the  discovery 
that  the  most  rooted  of  our  European  notions,  the 
idea  of  the  me-substance,  does  not  exist  for  them.  To 
understand  such  a  mental  condition  as  this  we  need 
to  recall  certain  rare  and  very  fugitive  moments  of 
our  own  lives.  Every  man  knows  those  moments  of 
morbid  dream  in  which  the  me  seems  to  melt  away. 
One  speaks  his  own  name  aloud,  and  it  seems  to  be 
a  meaningless  sound,  designating  no  one;  one  ques- 
tions anxiously,  "Is  there  any  myself?"  "What 
does  it  mean,  myself?  " 

This  strange  sensation,  with  us  so  transient,  is  per- 
manent with  them.  Their  personality  appears  to 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        125 

them  only  as  a  point  where  visions  cross  each  other; 
they  feel  nothing  permanent  within  themselves. 
Everything  about  them  is  transient,  and  the  doc- 
trine of  the  universal  flow  becomes  systematic  : 
"The  body  comes  from  food,  that  is  to  say,  from 
the  earth;  it  attracts  to  itself  external  elements," 
rejects  them  and  attracts  others;  thus  it  grows,  and 
subsists,  in  a  life  made  up  of  changes.  That  their 
enumerations  heap  together  "water,  sky,  earth, 
ether,  fire,  birds,  grass,  trees,  worms,  moths,  ants, 
thoughts,  abstractions,  the  Vedas,"  is  due  to  the 
consideration  that  all  these  things  blend  in  the  uni- 
versal whirl.  As  these  vapors  exhaled  from  the 
soil,  the  sea,  animals,  plants — which,  just  now,  were 
a  part  of  the  soil,  the  sea,  the  animal,  the  plant — are 
mingled,  rise,  are  lighted  up  in  the  sky,  float, 
traverse  space  at  random,  grow  cool,  fall,  and,  as 
chance  wills,  become  once  more  soil,  sea,  plant, 
animal,  things  thus  unite  and  separate  which  we 
believe  to  be  distinct.  "The  priest,  having  become 
air,  becomes  smoke;  having  become  smoke,  he  be- 
comes fog;  having  become  fog,  he  becomes  cloud, 
and  falls  in  rain.  Then  he  returns  into  life  as  corn, 
rice,  grass,  tree,  millet." 

Between  this  view  and  pantheism,  there  is  but  a 
step ;  and  this  step  they  take  in  two  ways.  Since 
all  forms  pass,  and  do  but  appear,  they  are  illusory. 
If  we  take  away  qualities  and  modes  of  being,  what 
remains?  "Nothing,"  say  the  Buddhists,  "Nada; 
the  world  is  not ;  nothingness  is  the  only  reality." 
''That  which  is,"  say  the  orthodox  Brahmans;  that 
which  is,  and  of  which  nothing  more  can  be  said 


126  IN  INDIA. 

than,  it  is ;  the  tat,  void  of  all  quality;  which  is 
neither  this  nor  that,  neither  cause  nor  effect ;  in 
short,  the  neuter  Brahma,  indeterminate,  unde- 
veloped, "which  thinks  not,  wills  not,  sees  not, 
knows  not," — Being,  pure  and  abstract.  On  the 
surface  of  this  neuter  Brahma,  which  is  attained  by 
pure  thought,  is  the  masculine  Brahma,  living,  tan- 
gible, having  color.  For,  after  considering  the  one 
substance  which  is  hidden  under  the  whirl  of  forms, 
one  may  consider  the  power  which  organizes  and 
keeps  up  this  whirl.  Since  all  is  motion  in  the 
world,  there  is  a  power  which  guides  this  motion. 
Since  the  world  is  not  inert,  like  a  stone,  but  living, 
like  a  tree,*  there  is  a  soul  which  sustains  and 
develops  it.  This  soul  is  Brahmd,  the  universal 
germ,  "the  living  and  incarnate  Me."  Since  he  is 
living,  he  has  qualities,  and  is  not  the  same  with  the 
neuter  Brahma,  of  which  he  is  only  the  first  mani- 
festation. He  is  Brahma,  but  Brahma  now  veiled 
by  the  illusory  Maya,  Brahma  subjected  to  time. 
"There  are  two  forms  of  Brahma:  he  who  knows 
time,  and  he  ^vho  knoivs  not  time :  he  who  knows 
time  has  parts.  Time  matures  and  dissolves  all 
beings  in  the  great  Me,  the  living  soul ;  but  he  who 
knows  in  what  time  itself  is  absorbed,  he  compre- 
hends the  Vedas." 

We  must  conceive,  then,  in  the  beginning  and  at 
the  root  of  all  things,  the  absolute  Being,  pure  and 
void,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  forms  and  all 
germs.  Developing  itself  outward,  it  is  subjected  to 

*A  favorite  metaphor  with  the  Brahmans.  Often  the  world  is 
designated  by  the  single  word,  "  the  tree." 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        127 

Maya,  illusion.  "Like  a  spider  wrapped  in  threads 
drawn  from  her  own  substance,  it  assumes  qualities 
coming  from  itself,"  and  its  first  projection  is  the  liv- 
ing Brahmd,  the  soul,  or  subtle  and  universal  idea, 
"which  acts  within  the  world  and  diversifies  it. 
This  soul  is  neither  male  nor  female,  yet  neither  is 
it  neuter."  This  it  is,  which,  "becoming  this  and 
that,"  takes  millions  of  ephemeral  forms,  all  emerg- 
ing from  itself,  all  falling  back  into  it ;  itself  fugitive, 
like  all  this  visible  universe,  and  condemned,  after 
these  myriads  of  millions  of  centuries  which  to 
Brahma  are  as  a  day,  to  be  absorbed  in  the  neuter 
Being  "which  has  neither  shadows,  nor  body,  nor 
color." 

Let  it  be  conceived  that  the  world  is  an  immense 
tree,  solidly  rooted  in  the  ground.  Whence  do  they 
come,  these  innumerable  leaves  that  rustle  in  the 
wind,  that  glisten  in  the  light,  these  wide-spread 
branches,  this  delicious  fruit,  this  solid  column  of  a 
trunk,  ever  growing  stronger,  all  this  lustrous  and 
perfumed  vegetation?  They  come  from  a  primitive 
germ,  now  diffused,  but  still  vital  and  active,  alike 
in  the  deep,  dark  roots  and  in  the  impalpable  dust 
which  gives  the  petal  of  the  flower  its  color  and 
smoothness.  Bark,  leaves,  flowers,  cells,  all  change — 
they  die  and  are  renewed,  like  everything  in  the 
world.  But  the  primitive  force  which  reared  the 
tree  subsists  through  all  these  deaths  and  births ; 
gives  their  form  and  their  order  to  the  ever  new  and 
fleeting  elements.  Whence,  then,  does  it  come,  this 
active  force  which  is  like  the  living  Brahma  that 
animates  the  universe?  From  the  soil,  the  inert 


128  IN  INDIA. 

ground,  of  which  one  day  a  portion  became  organic. 
This  soil  is  the  image  of  the  primitive  Brahma; 
from  it  all  proceeds;  to  it  all  returns;  and  when, 
after  centuries,  the  force  which  sustains  the  tree 
shall  be  exhausted,  changes  ceasing,  development 
being  arrested,  the  tree  will  return  to  the  earth,  and 
again  all  will  be  motionless. 

"At  this  moment,  thou  art  a  woman,  a  man,  a 
child,  a  young  girl,  an  old  man  leaning  upon  a  staff, 
thou  art  born  with  thy  face  turned  on  all  sides. 
Thou  art  the  blue  honey-bee,  the  red-eyed  green 
parrot,  thou  art  the  thunder-cloud,  the  seasons, 
thou  art  the  seas.  Thou  art  without  beginning, 
being  infinite,  thou  of  whom  all  worlds  are  born. 
But  as  the  flowing  rivers  which  go  toward  the  ocean 
are  absorbed  and  swallowed  up  in  it,  losing  their 
names  and  their  forms,  so  the  sun  and  moon,  the 
Kshatriyas  and  Brahmans,  mosquitos,  bees,  flamin- 
gos, the  Devas,  Vishnu,  Siva,  and  time  itself  in  which 
lives  the  second  Brahma,  will  be  absorbed  in  the 
inconceivable  existence,  and  their  names  and  their 
forms  will  be  no  more."  And  in  reality,  at  this 
moment  they  are  not,  these  forms;  they  are  only 
appearances.  Brahma,  regarding  himself  in  the 
mirror  of  time  and  of  illusion,  perceives  himself  as 
multiple  and  mutable,  but  in  reality  there  is  only 
that  whicJi  is. 

This  is  no  mere  theory,  no  scholastic  thesis,  no 
philosophy  framed  by  idle  speculation,  but  an 
active,  practical,  deeply  rooted  belief,  elaborated 
by  solitary  and  concentrated  meditation.  Thrown 
back  upon  himself,  absorbed  in  reflection,  the 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        129 

Brahman  no  longer  distinguishes  the  real  world 
from  that  of  his  dreams,  and  sees  it  floating 
to  and  fro  like  a  vapor.  Hence  the  tie  which 
attaches  him  to  this  world  has  no  strength.  How 
can  a  man  love  that  which  is  known  to  be  unreal? 
Why  seek  to  grasp  what  must  inevitably  slip  from 
the  hand? 

"O  holy  one!  what  profits  it  to  be  happy  in 
this  vile  and  fragile  body,  an  accumulation  of  bones 
and  blood  and  skin,  of  nerves,  marrow,  flesh,  tears? 
What  profits  it  to  be  happy  in  this  body,  which  is 
assailed  by  hatred,  covetousness,  envy,  deception, 
fear,  anguish,  jealousy,  the  separation  from  friends, 
hunger,  thirst,  old  age,  death,  disease,  suffering? 
And  we  see  that  all  is  perishable,  flies  and  moths 
and  other  insects,  grass  and  trees,  which  grow  up 
and  decay.  Look  back  toward  those  who  are  no 
more ;  look  forward  to  those  who  as  yet  are  not. 
Men  ripen  like  grain,  they  perish ;  and  like  grain, 
they  spring  up  anew.  There  have  been  powerful 
men,  strong  to  draw  the  bow,  chiefs  of  the  people, 
Sudyama,  Asvapati,  Sasabindu,  and  kings,  who,  with 
their  families  about  them,  have  abandoned  their  great 
felicity,  and  gone  forth,  out  of  this  life;  and  what 
has  become  of  them?  The  great  oceans  dry  up,  the 
mountains  fall,  the  polar  star  changes  its  place,  the 
earth  will  be  submerged,  the  gods  also  will  pass 
away.  In  a  world  like  this,  why  desire  to  be  happy? 
Oh,  bend  toward  me!  In  this  world  I  languish,  as 
a  frog  in  a  dry  well !" 

Thus  the  King  Krihadhrata  bewailed  himself, 
who,  cutting  off  the  root  of  desire  in  his  heart,  had 


13°  IN  INDIA. 

taken  refuge  in  the  forest.  For  a  thousand  years  he 
remained  there,  with  lifted  arms,  looking  at  the  sun, 
motionless  like  his  brethren,  the  gymnosophists, 
who  sit  solitary  in  the  Indian  jungles.  For  to  im- 
mobility all  Hindu  philosophy  practically  leads. 
Illusion  being  recognized  as  such,  what  is  more 
natural  than  a  wish  to  escape  from  it?  And  how 
succeed  in  doing  this,  unless  by  destroying  in  one's 
self  all  that  makes  part  of  this  illusive  and  fugitive 
world,  namely,  desire,  will,  sensation?  Meditation 
has  made  a  void  within  the  soul;  there  remains  to 
him  no  further  motive  of  action ;  he  understands 
that  nothing  is  worth  the  trouble  of  a  motion,  and 
that  he  himself  does  not  exist;  he  seats  himself 
upon  his  heels  and  meditates. 

Upon  what  does  he  meditate?  Upon  Brahma. 
The  knowledge  of  Brahma  is  enfranchisement.  The 
Brahma  who  is  one's  self,  and  who  perceives  himself 
to  be  diverse  and  mutable  by  the  very  fact  that  he 
recognizes  himself  as  Brahma,  turns  away  from  the 
magic  mirror  of  Maya.  Let  us  repeat  "I  am  Brahma," 
"for  he  who  knows  that  he  is  Brahma,  is  one  with  Him 
who  is  One."  Beyond  the  misty  veil  of  appearances, 
let  us  strive  to  behold  Him  who  is:  immediately  all 
barriers  of  our  limited  being  falling,  we  become 
again  the  eternal  and  infinite,  returning  finally  into 
that  whence  we  came  forth.  It  is  a  singular  fact 
that  here,  for  the  first  and  possibly  for  the  last 
time,  the  human  being  attaches  salvation,  not  to 
acts,  not  to  faith,  not  to  emotions,  not  to  cere- 
monies, but  to  knowledge. 

"Those  whose   conduct    is   good,   who  read  the 


BENARES.    BRAHMANISM.      HINDUISM.        I31 

Vedas  and  perform  the  sacrifices,  will  ascend  after 
death  to  the  abode  of  the  devas,  but  the  fruit  of 
their  good  works  being  consumed,  they  return  into 
this  world,  for  they  are  ivithout  knowledge.  They  are 
born  in  new  forms,  they  have  will  and  power  and 
sensation,  they  live  again.  This  is  the  worst  suffer- 
ing, and  can  only  be  escaped  by  becoming  absorbed 
into  the  unconsciousness  and  inertia  of  pure  Being. 
The  man  who  sees  a  difference  between  Brahma 
and  the  world  goes  from  change  to  change,  from 
death  to  death."  That  is  to  say,  he  will  forever  be 
reborn. 

That  a  man  may  enter  into  calm,  he  must  hold 
his  breath,  fix  his  attention,  destroy  his  senses,  cease 
from  speaking.  He  presses  his  palate  with  the  tip 
of  the  tongue,  breathes  slowly,  looks  fixedly  at  a 
point  in  space,  and  thought  ceases,  consciousness 
is  abolished,  the  feeling  of  personality  vanishes. 
"We  shall  cease  to  feel  pleasure  and  pain,  having 
attained  immobility  and  solitude."  The  human 
existence,  recognizing  itself  as  the  absolute  Being,  is 
rid  of  time  and  space,  of  number,  limit,  and  quality. 
"As  a  spider  rising  by  means  of  its  own  thread 
gains  the  open  space,  so  he  who  meditates  rises  by 
means  of  the  syllable  OM,  and  gains  independence." 
"That  which  is  without  thought,  though  situated  at 
the  heart  of  all  thought;*  that  which  is  hid,  though 
at  the  foundation  of  all  things — let  a  man  plunge  his 
soul  into  this,  and  his  being  will  go  forth  free  from 
its  bonds."  Thought  and  will  being  abolished,  the 
whole  phantasmagoria  of  Maya  disappears :  "We 

*  Cf.  Spinoza. 


I32  IN  INDIA. 

become  like  a  fire  without  smoke,  or  like  a  traveller, 
who,  having  left  the  carriage  which  brought  him, 
watches  the  revolution  of  its  wheels."  "Grief  can 
no  longer  live  in  us ;  he  who  knows  Brahma  is  for- 
ever consoled."  That  is  to  say,  we  comprehend 
that  we  are  nothing  but  a  spark  of  the  one  absolute 
Being;  henceforward,  what  suffering  could  reach  us? 
"We  no  longer  say:  this  body  is  myself,  I  am  such 
a  person ;  but  /  am  Brahma,  I  am  the  world" 
"Pure,  undeveloped,  tranquil,  unbreathing,  bodiless, 
eternal,  immutable,  imperishable,  firm,  passionless, 
unborn,  independent,"  I  have  forever  entered  into 
peace,  for  I  have  thrown  off  conscious  existence. 
Such  is  the  supreme  felicity,  reserved  for  the  adepts 
of  the  mysterious  doctrine  celebrated  by  the  Upan- 
ishads  with  a  solemnity  of  language  which  gives  an 
idea  of  the  fervor,  the  enthusiasm,  the  tremor  of  re- 
strained hope  wherewith  the  Brahman  is  thrilled,  as 
he  looks  forward  to  that  day  of  deliverance  after 
which  he  will  never  again  say  Me,  of  himself.  "He 
who,  knowing  the  Vedas  and  having  repeated  them 
daily  in  a  consecrated  place,  having  made  no 
creature  suffer,  concentrates  his  thoughts  upon  the 
Existence,  and  is  absorbed  therein,  attains  the 
world  of  Brahma,  and  returns  no  more;  no,  he 
returns  no  more." 

Thought,  cast  into  a  metaphysical  vertigo  and  by 
its  own  effort  abolishing  itself,  and  the  annihilation 
of  the  will,  are  intellectual  and  moral  effects  of 
the  Brahmanic  philosophy.  We  see  this  philosophy 
emerge  from  a  primitive  tendency  manifested  far 
back  in  the  Vedic  age,  and  unroll  the  series  of  these 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        133 

results.  That  they  are  inevitable  appears  clear,  when 
we  observe  that  elsewhere  the  same  causes  have 
produced  the  same  effects.  We  cannot  consider 
nations — for  the  case  of  India  is  unique — but  we  may 
individuals,  for  it  is  surely  legitimate  to  compare  the 
average  soul  of  a  race  with  some  individual  soul, 
observing  in  both  the  same  structure  and  the  same 
ties.  We  have  had  Hindu  minds  in  Europe.  In 
England,  where  man  is  so  valiant  and  so  active, 
where  personality  is  so  strong  and  stable,  where 
poetry  is  so  subjective,  where  religion  is  a  mono- 
theism so  Hebraic,  Shelley  was  almost  such.  Critics 
have  long  since  noted  in  him  faculties  analogous  to 
those  which  wove  the  Vedic  myths.  No  poetry  is 
more  impersonal,  no  sympathetic  imagination  more 
capable  of  reproducing  the  elemental  sensations  of 
elemental  beings — the  gladness  of  the  earth  revolving 
in  the  light  of  space,  with  its  girdle  of  seas  and  con- 
tinents, its  forests,  its  clouds,  its  humid  blue  atmos- 
phere ;  the  peace  of  the  splendid  cloud  floating  in 
the  warm  ether,  then  laughing  in  the  thunder  and 
falling  in  the  rain,  mother  of  future  harvests;  the 
ecstasy  of  the  lark,  intoxicated  with  the  sight  of  the 
luminous  plains,  quivering  with  joy,  throbbing 
invisible  in  space, 

"  Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  has  just  begun," 

and  the  timid  affection  of  the  fragile  plant  dream- 
ing of  its  future  buds.  Shelley  became  earth  with 
the  earth,  a  flower  with  the  flower,  a  brook  with  the 
brook,  and  his  poetry  is  a  changeful  reflection  of 
changeful  nature.  He  was  destitute  of  that  durable 
emotion  on  which  personality  is  founded ;  the  sensa- 


134  IN  INDIA. 

tion  of  the  Me,  with  him,  was  reduced  to  its  mini- 
mum. He  is  always  speaking  of  that  ecstasy  in 
which  the  observer  becomes  one  with  the  object  con- 
templated. His  soul  is  not  distinct,  isolated  in 
nature,  but  is  all  scattered  through  it.  Hence,  all 
natural  objects  appear  to  him  to  be  alive  and  to  have 
a  soul ;  to  be  capable  of  sensations ;  and  moreover, 
to  be  constantly  in  motion,  ever  changing,  always 
undergoing  transformation.  The  sensation  of  Life 
— of  Life  at  the  same  time  one  and  multiple — this 
is  what  his  poetry  expresses.  He  recognizes  a  soul 
of  the  universe,  a  soul  of  which  we  are  the  thoughts, 
into  which  death  absorbs  us,  which  quivers  in  the 
worm  and  in  the  star;  a  soul  of  which  nature  is  the 
mystic  garment,  hidden  under  the  things  which  are 
seen,  and,  at  rare  moments,  shining  through  beauti- 
ful and  noble  forms,  as  a  pale  flame  within  a  vase  of 
translucent  alabaster.  Let  a  man  re-read  "Prome- 
theus Unbound,"  where  all  beings  unite  in  chorus, 
and  especially  that  marvellous  dialogue  of  the  Earth 
and  the  Moon,  and  let  him  say  if  the  poet  were  not 
intoxicated  with  that  universal,  eternally  upspring- 
ing  life  which  circulates  through  all  things;  if  he 
were  not  transported  by  the  vision  of  the  living 
Brahmd.  displayed  in  sounds,  and  perfumes,  and 
colors.  Beyond  this,  Shelley  never  went.  He 
never  perceived  the  neuter  Brdhma,  motionless, 
without  qualities.  Of  the  two  stages  of  Hindu 
intelligence  and  feeling,  he  passed  through  the  first 
only.  He  knew  the  dream,  the  gayety,  the  ecstasy 
of  the  Vedic  poets;  he  never  attained  to  the  inertia 
of  the  gymnosophists.  A  pantheist  he  was,  but  with 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        135 

a  joyous  pantheism,  and  he  remained  valiant  and 
sound. 

Amiel  is  a  case  more  nearly  complete.  He  pene- 
trated beneath  the  living  Brahma,  he  became  be- 
numbed with  the  torpidity  of  the  "enfranchised" 
Brahman,  and  his  aptitude  for  revery  and  specula- 
tion, the  paralysis  of  his  will,  had  exactly  their 
point  of  departure  in  the  plastic  faculty  which  we 
have  noted  as  the  origin  of  the  Hindu  pantheism. 
"My  mind,"  he  says,  "is  the  empty  frame  of  a  thou- 
sand effaced  images.  It  is  without  substance,  being 
now  form  only.  To  return  into  the  body  has  always 
appeared  to  me  singular,  an  arbitrary  and  conven- 
tional thing.  I  appear  to  myself  as  a  receptacle  of 
phenomena,  as  a  subject  without  fixed  individuality, 
and  hence,  resigning  myself  only  with  an  effort  to 
the  role  of  an  individual,  the  inhabitant  of  a  certain 
city,  in  a  certain  country." 

From  this  habitual  sensation  of  seeing  in  the  uni- 
verse only  a  misty  dream  wherein  appearances  come 
and  go,  the  distance  is  short  to  pessimism  and  im- 
mobility. Hindu  inertia,  Hindu  pessimism,  Hindu 
pantheism,  these  three  stages,  of  the  will,  of  the 
emotional  nature,  and  of  the  intellect,  Amiel  tra- 
versed. He  recognizes  himself  as  akin  to  the  Brah- 
rnans:  "This  mental  phantasmagoria  lulls  me  as  it 
does  the  Indian  yogi;  to  me,  everything  is  smoke, 
illusion,  vapor,  even  my  own  existence.  I  attach  so 
little  importance  to  all  phenomena  that  they  pass 
over  me  like  gleams  of  light,  and  are  gone  without 
leaving  a  trace.  Meditation  is  like  opium ;  it  intoxi- 
cates, and  reduces  to  transparent  vapor  the  moun- 


I36  IN  INDIA. 

tains  and  all  that  is."  This  is  the  hallucination  of 
the  solitary  Brahman,  who,  concentrating  his  thought, 
sees  the  procession  of  the  worlds  rising  like  a  mist, 
for  thousands  of  centuries,  out  of  the  empty  dark- 
ness of  being.  Amiel's  revery  embraces  the  whole 
world.  "Each  civilization,"  he  says,  "is  like  a  thou- 
sand years'  dream,  in  which  heaven  and  earth,  nature 
and  history,  appear  in  a  phantasmic  light,  performing 
a  drama  invented  by  the  hallucinated  soul."  He 
seems  to  himself  no  longer  a  solid  substance;  he 
melts,  and  becomes  a  vapor  like  everything  else.  "I 
am  fluid  as  a  phantom,  which  is  seen,  but  cannot  be 
grasped.  I  resemble  a  man  to  the  same  extent 
that  the  manes  of  Achilles,  the  shade  of  Creusa 
were  like  human  beings.  Without  having  died,  I 
am  a  ghost.  Others  appear  to  me  as  a  dream ;  I 
am  a  dream  to  others."  Such  is  the  strange  sensa- 
tion which,  repeated  upon  successive  generations, 
has  produced  not  only  Hindu  philosophy,  but  many 
of  the  characteristics  of  Hindu  civilization.  Ob- 
serve that  there  is  not  a  fact  noted  in  these  two  vol- 
umes of  Amiel's  Confessions,  not  a  detail  of  real  life. 
Naturally,  when  one  is  devoted  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  infinite,  and  occupies  himself  with  the 
absolute,  how  should  he  be  interested  in  the  acci- 
dental and  the  limited?  When  the  whole  world 
seems  a  vapory  illusion,  why  should  a  man  care  to 
study  it,  in  the  view  of  finding  for  himself  the  best 
place  there?  The  solid  foundation  upon  which  we 
rest  our  seventy  years  of  human  life  disappears  all 
at  once,  and  the  individual,  losing  his  interest  in  the 
real  and  visible  world,  loses  also  his  hold  upon  it. 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.          137 

This  is  the  case  in  India.  With  the  exception  of 
philosophy  and  astronomy,  which  treat  of  what  is 
eternal,  the  Hindus  have  had  no  sciences.  They 
have  not  had,  as  the  Greeks  had,  the  curiosity  to 
seek  out  the  laws  which  govern  facts;  they  have 
not  enlightened  their  obscure  vision  of  nature.  Cer- 
tain of  the  Upanishads  seem  written  by  children  or 
insane  persons.  Dogs  and  flamingos  converse  and 
philosophize.  There  is  no  history.  This  abundant 
literature  is  all  revery  and  metaphysics.  Not  a 
date,  not  an  anecdote,  not  a  serious  genealogy. 
Almost  all  that  we  know  of  the  greatest  religious 
event  of  Asia  reaches  us  through  the  accounts  given 
by  Chinese  pilgrims.  Of  Buddhism  we  are  told 
neither  when  it  begins,  nor  how  and  when  it  disap- 
pears from  India.  But  what  more  foolish  than  to 
study  social  conditions,  civilizations,  the  history  of 
mankind,  if  mankind,  society,  civilization,  are,  as 
Amiel  says,  only  dreams  projected  by  the  soul, 
only  waves  rising  for  an  instant  on  the  surface  of 
Brahma!  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  here  no 
effort  at  social  organization,  no  precise  grouping  in 
states  or  nations,  no  constitution  definite  and 
secure.  Once  Brahmanism  established,  and  the 
philosophic  dream  begun,  there  is  no  resistance  to 
attacks  from  without.  Her  civil,  military,  and  polit- 
ical organization  being  rudimentary,  India,  incapable 
of  definite  form,  is  gelatinous,  so  to  speak;  vague, 
incoherent,  powerless,  at  the  mercy  of  the  first 
aggressive  comer,  Musalman  or  English,  what  does 
it  matter  to  her,  provided  only  she  is  left  to  her 
dream  of  that  which  is  durable,  that  which  truly  is, 


138  IN  INDIA. 

a  knowledge  of  which  enfranchises  from  sorrow; 
provided  only  that  she  is  permitted  to  intoxicate 
herself  with  Being,  in  the  repetition  of  the  syllable 
OM,  which  gives  peace ! 

DECEMBER  2. 

This  morning  I  return  to  the  river  bank.  To 
understand  Brahmanic  India,  no  spectacle  is  so  use- 
ful as  a  sight  of  this  people  in  their  out-of-door  life 
on  the  bank  of  the  sacred  Ganges.  Here  they  pray, 
they  loiter,  they  converse,  they  eat,  they  fall  asleep, 
they  die.  Upon  litters  the  sick  and  the  dying  lie 
extended,  some  of  them  brought  from  great  dis- 
tances to  end  here.  Even  the  form  that  was  once  a 
living  being  is  destroyed  in  the  presence  of  the 
river;  for  here  is  the  place  of  cremation.  There 
are  the  funeral  piles,  and  near  them  the  unconcerned 
crowd  continues  splashing  in  the  river,  praying, 
drawing  water,  performing  its  ablutions.  A  few 
steps  distant  from  the  sad  spot,  men  turn  their 
backs  to  it,  and  dry  themselves  calmly,  sitting  in 
the  sun.  Like  a  natural  and  familiar  occurrence, 
the  dissolution  of  the  individual  goes  on  amid  the 
general  life  of  which  it  is  but  an  incident.  There 
is  nothing  frightful  about  it.  Certainly,  to  the 
Hindu,  the  Me  has  not  that  strength  of  coherence 
which  makes  us  believe  in  its  inevitable  permanency, 
which  gives  to  us  will  to  live,  and  will  not  let  us 
think  without  horror  of  annihilation.  After  a  body 
has  been  burned,  the  relatives  do  not  weep,  but 
sing:  "Is  it  not  folly  to  wish  anything  lasting  in 
man?  Is  he  not  fleeting  as  a  bubble  on  the  water, 
frail  as  the  stem  of  a  flower?  Earth,  ocean,  and  the 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        139 

gods  must  perish.  Why,  then,  should  not  the  world 
of  men,  evanescent  as  foam,  be  seized  by  universal 
death,  and  perish  also?" 

I  watched  it  take  place,  this  disappearance  of  a 
human  form.  A  Brahman  presides  over  the  crema- 
tions, ensconced  in  a  dark  rectangular  niche  at  the 
top  of  a  small  square  tower,  impassive,  a  cap  on  his 
head,  the  meagreness  of  his  body  visible  through  his 
yellow  garment.  At  the  foot  of  the  tower  are  heaps 
of  wood,  and  here  and  there,  as  if  thrown  down  care- 
lessly, tightly  strapped  in  pink  or  purple  coverings, 
secured  within  four  green  bamboos,  lie  rigid  figures. 
Two  fires  are  burning:  on  one  the  corpse  is  still 
intact,  the  limbs  secured  with  cords  as  if  trussed  for 
the  spit ;  the  other  pile  has  just  ceased  blazing,  and 
tiny  rose-colored  flames  are  quivering  over  the 
ashes  and  charred  wood  and  calcined  bones.  Then 
the  horrible  heap  is  thrown  into  the  Ganges,  and 
floats  slowly  away  on  the  tranquil  current.  The 
brown  stain  broadens,  then  disappears,  on  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  heavy  water.  All  around 
there  is  a  vague  dazzle  of  color  in  a  mist  of  light,  a 
confused  rustling,  and  the  splendid  flight  of  scream- 
ing birds. 

Every  day  this  scene  is  repeated.  There  is  noisy 
music  of  gongs  when  an  old  man  is  burned ;  but  if 
the  person  is  very  young  there  is  wailing,  and  a 
mourning  procession  walks  round  the  pyre. 

Between  the  palaces  which  crown  the  ghats,  the 
flights  of  stairs  ascend — broad  at  the  water's  edge, 
and  growing  narrower  till  they  vanish  under  dark 
doorways.  On  the  steps,  women,  statuesque  in 


140  IN  INDIA. 

their  blue  draperies,  very  upright,  support  grandly 
with  lifted  arms  the  vessels  full  of  river  water,  the 
heavy  copper  jars  that  they  carry  on  their  heads. 
Others  carry  baskets  full  of  white  flowers,  and  place 
them  in  front  of  tranquil  cows. 

I  make  my  way  upward  through  narrow  lanes,  full 
of  white  light,  where  the  shadows  are  sharply  out- 
lined on  the  pavements.  On  the  walls  blue  ele- 
phants are  marching  up,  loaded  with  gods.  At  the 
corners  of  the  houses  are  altars  or  little  temples, 
where  the  ceremonial  flowers  are  in  heaps  before 
grotesque  images.  Through  windows  somewhat  of 
the  indoor  life  can  be  seen ;  always  the  same  low 
square  rooms  with  their  range  of  colonnettes ;  dark 
courtyards,  sculptured  walls.  Around  us  there  are 
more  and  more  monsters  and  chapels,  crowded  and 
heaped  one  upon  another;  there  is  an  orgy  of 
sacred  figures,  shrines,  altars,  in  the  tortuous  lane. 
The  white  eyeballs  of  gods  gleam  in  the  shadow, 
their  multiplied  arms  writhe,  their  mouths  grimace 
frightfully.  This  one  is  Mahakal,  or  the  Great 
Fate;  this  is  the  god  Bhuironath,  chief  policeman, 
who  keeps  order  in  Benares,  and  his  club  is  also 
a  divinity,  represented  by  a  stone  covered  with 
a  mask;  this  is  the  genius  of  the  planet  Saturn, 
whose  silver  head  emerges  from  a  platform ;  this  is 
Anupurna,  "the  good  goddess,"  who  feeds  all  her 
worshippers;  and  here,  as  everywhere  else,  is  the 
son  of  Siva,  the  astonishing  Ganesa,  seated,  his  legs 
crossed,  his  stout  waist  girt  with  the  Brahman's 
sacred  cord,  and  his  red  elephant's  trunk  lying  on 
the  ground  in  voluminous  folds;  while,  at  the  feet 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        141 

of  the  huge  clumsy  divinity,  is  the  tiny  mouse, 
bridled  and  saddled,  which  serves  him  as  a  courser. 
Across  gratings  I  catch  a  rapid  glimpse  of  a  Brah- 
man seated  on  the  ground  before  the  idol  whose 
guardian  he  is,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  meagre  limbs 
motionless.  In  dark  corners  are  sacred  wells,  into 
which  the  crowd  throw  flowers — the  well  of  Fate, 
that  of  Science,  that  of  Mankarnika. 

As  we  advance,  it  is  with  difficulty  that  we  force 
our  way  through  the  crowd.  The  narrow  lanes  are 
made  still  narrower  by  projecting  stalls  where  there 
are  masses  of  rosaries  and  statuettes,  and,  especially, 
great  yellow  heaps  of  jasmine.  The  air  is  thick  with 
the  odor  from  all  these  people,  these  flowers,  and 
these  wells  of  stagnant  water:  we  make  our  way 
onward  through  the  noise  of  prayers,  confused, 
elbowed,  crowded,  carried  by  the  multitude,  pushed 
against  by  a  hundred  screaming  beggars  ;  and  always 
there  are  rows  of  idols,  and  chapels  whose  porches  are 
guarded  by  motionless  fakirs.  Finally  an  odor  more 
nauseating,  of  fetid  mud  as  from  a  cowyard,  together 
with  decomposed  flowers,  announces  the  great 
temple  of  Siva.  Here  is  its  gilded  dome,  here  are 
its  towers,  not  isolated  in  an  open  space,  but  crowded 
close  by  houses,  encroached  upon  by  shops,  rising 
in  the  very  heart  of  these  lanes.  This  is  the  centre 
of  the  Hindu  ant-hill ;  and,  like  an  ant-hill,  it  is  in 
feverish,  disorderly  agitation.  There  is  no  common 
action  on  the  part  of  this  multitude ;  each  is  going 
his  own  way,  regardless  of  everyone  else.  Old 
women  of  Brahmanic  race,  white-faced,  in  their  white 
draperies,  toothless,  stumbling,  muttering,  go  by  like 


142  IN-  INDIA. 

sleep-walkers;  with  hysterical  gestures  they  throw 
flowers  upon  the  ground,  or  sprinkle  it  with  Ganges 
water.  In  the  presence  of  all  this  multitude,  priests, 
with  sanctimonious  air,  sit  drowsing  in  the  sun,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  temple.  There  are  men  running 
rapidly  around  two  trees:  there  are  others  calling 
upon  Siva,  and  striking  bells  hung  in  a  row  before  his 
sanctuaries.  There  are  files  of  trembling  old  Brah- 
mans,  gray-haired  and  ill-shaven,  who,  leaning  against 
each  other,  advance  with  difficulty ;  there  are  men- 
dicants with  white  skin,  of  a  wan  white,  entirely 
white  hair,  and  a  sort  of  collar  of  grayish  beard. 
Many  faces  quite  European  catch  your  eye  for  a 
moment,  then  are  lost  in  the  crowd.  You  recognize 
very  rapidly  the  fellow-Aryan,  the  man  of  our  own 
race;  but  brutalized  or  enfeebled  in  mind,  by  suc- 
cessive invasions,  by  tyrannies,  by  the  burning 
climate,  by  centuries  of  suffering.  The  look  is 
strange,  fevered,  or  idiotic.  There  is  an  air  of  in- 
sanity everywhere. 

Within  the  temple,  on  the  black  pavement, 
slippery  with  mud  and  the  crushed  flowers,  this 
eddy  of  the  human  tide  carries  us  at  random  under 
colonnades,  past  infected  wells,  where  men,  leaning 
over,  are  anxiously  seeking  to  see  their  own  image 
in  the  water,  past  a  colossal  statue  of  a  bull  in  red 
stone,  into  a  sacred  cow-house,  where  the  animals, 
their  mouths  filled  with  flowers,  their  eyes  shut, 
regally  accept  the  worship  of  the  insane  multitude ; 
and  suddenly,  a  shiver  of  terror — I  have  brushed 
against  an  indescribable  object,  a  naked  creature  of 
uniform  gray  color,  rigid  as  stone — a  fakir,  covered 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        143 

with  ashes,  who  seems  to  be  dead,  and  does  not 
even  start  at  the  collision  ;  and  now,  hustled  by  the 
crowd,  suffocated,  terrified,  I  find  myself,  without 
any  idea  how,  again  among  the  little  lanes  where 
the  flowers  are  sold.  From  here  I  see  the  human 
wave  flowing  slow,  a  dense  crowd  around  the  pagoda. 
The  portico  is  guarded  by  mendicant  Brahmans,  old 
bald-heads  nodding  with  stupor.  Above  them,  the 
painted  image  of  the  lord  of  Benares,  the  ascetic 
god,  Siva,  who  creates  and  destroys,  emblem  of  the 
Power  which  reproduces  all  beings,  and,  from  mil- 
lions of  deaths,  calls  forth  millions  of  lives. 

DECEMBER  3. 

After  a  few  days  passed  in  this  Hindu  world,  the 
mind  begins  to  be  filled  with  Hindu  impressions. 
To-day,  in  leaving  the  temple  of  Siva,  it  seemed  to 
me  that,  under  these  diverse  images,  I  begin  to 
make  out  a  fundamental  idea,  as,  in  the  different 
notes  of  a  musical  instrument,  you  recognize  the 
same  timbre. 

Observe  this  vase  of  Benares  brass.  You  admire 
the  lustre  of  the  metal,  the  fineness  of  the  chasing: 
but  these  are  only  peculiarities  of  brass  vases.  Ob- 
serve another  characteristic  more  interesting,  be- 
cause very  general :  what  does  all  this  chasing 
represent?  At  first  sight,  you  scarcely  know;  it 
seems  only  a  confusion  of  lines,  curving,  interlaced, 
entangled  by  chance.  By  degrees,  vague  forms 
are  discernible — gods,  genii,  fish,  dogs,  gazelles, 
flowers,  grass;  not  grouped  after  any  design,  but 
thrown  together,  piled  one  over  another  in  a  confused 


144  IN  INDIA. 

living  heap,  like  the  slimy  mass  brought  up  in  a 
net,  where,  amid  the  seaweed,  you  can  discern  claws 
that  move,  scales  that  glitter,  and  the  twisting  and 
writhing  of  soft  creatures.  So,  every  one  of  these 
chasings  is  endlessly  complicated ;  these  gods  have 
their  six  arms;  these  plants  extend  in  every  direc- 
tion with  stems  and  leaves;  these  flowers  are  en- 
twined and  twisted  into  each  other.  In  short, 
nothing  is  simple;  everything  is  multiple,  tufty, and 
this  complexity,  for  want  of  leading  lines,  remains 
irregular. 

Accumulated  number,  without  order  or  propor- 
tion, is  the  characteristic  to  be  discovered  here  at 
every  moment:  in  this  inundation  of  divinities  who 
overflow  their  temples  and  fill  all  the  streets  with 
their  multitude;  in  this  ant-hill  of  men  of  every  color 
and  caste,  which  rustles  in  the  morning  on  the  river 
bank;  in  this  human  wave  which  just  now  swept 
around  the  images  of  Siva;  in  this  confusion  of 
chapels,  altars,  sacred  wells,  statues  of  animals;  not 
forming  simple,  geometrical  figures, — as  in  ancient 
Egypt  where  avenues  of  sphinxes,  ending  in  pyram- 
idal pylons,  gave  access  to  rectangular  courts, — but 
scattered,  at  random,  in  tortuous  lanes,  amid  shops 
and  houses.  This  characteristic  appears,  again, 
in  the  strange  architectural  constructions,  where 
stone  grows  out  of  stone,  as  a  leaf  out  of  a  leaf; 
and  torsos,  heads,  arms,  legs  of  gods  innumerable, 
bodies  of  quadrupeds  and  of  snakes  abound, 
crushing  each  other,  rising  in  a  confused  pyramid 
of  living  forms.  Spontaneously,  owing  to  a  spe- 
cial construction  of  the  Hindu  mind,  things  appear 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        HS 

to  these  people  as  infinitely  complex.  While  the 
Greek  was  especially  sensible  of  the  correct  and  the 
well-ordered,  the  Hindu  perceives  chiefly  the  multi- 
tudinous and  the  diverse.  This  nature  surrounding 
them  does  not  seem  to  them  a  harmonious  and 
limited  whole,  but  rather  an  immense  vegetation, 
with  ever-increasing  branches,  an  inextricable  net- 
work of  offshoots,  all  growing  vigorously  and  unre- 
strained. 

To  understand  the  Hindu  point  of  view,  contrast 
it  with  our  theistic  position.  These  people  of  India 
never  conceived  of  an  intelligent  and  moral  archi- 
tect of  the  universe,  who  made  man  in  his  own 
image,  by  intelligence  and  reason,  sovereign  of  the 
creation  which,  in  perfect  order,  in  classes  and  spe- 
cies and  genera,  lay  below  him.  They  do  not  feel 
themselves  separated  from  creation,  but  brothers  of 
all  living  things,  making  part  of  Nature,  born  of  her, 
and  yet  oppressed  and  crushed  by  her  grandeur 
and  multiplicity.  They  fix  no  date  of  six  thou- 
sand years  ago  for  the  beginning  of  things.  Con- 
sider those  gigantic  poems,  those  endless  enumer- 
ations, those  prodigious  accumulations  of  figures, 
those  myriads  of  millions  of  centuries,  those  frantic 
metaphors  prolonged  beyond  all  possibility  of  the 
mind's  following  them,  by  which  Hindu  authors 
strive  to  figure  the  immensity  of  the  universe, 
the  infinity  of  space  and  time;  and  you  will 
perceive  that  they  have  had,  carried  almost  to 
vertigo,  the  sensation  of  the  illimitable;  not  an 
abstract,  mathematical  infinity,  which  can  be  ex- 
pressed by  a  symbol,  but  the  living  illimitable, 


146  IN  INDIA. 

wherein  grow,  unite,  contend,  all  forms  and  all 
forces,  and  to  symbolize  which  all  their  work,  in  its 
extravagance  and  disorder,  aims. 

The  present  religion  of  India  is  a  Hindu  work, 
as  complicated,  irregular,  and  multitudinous  as  a 
pagoda-roof  or  the  chasing  of  a  Benares  vase.  It 
was  developed  out  of  Brahmanism,  as  leaves, 
flowers,  seed,  grow  out  of  a  straight  and  simple 
stem.  First,  say  the  old  Brahmans,  there  is  one; 
then  he  becomes  three;  then  five,  then  seven,  then 
nine;  then  they  say  he  is  eleven,  and  a  hundred  and 
ten,  and  a  thousand  and  twenty.  It  is  these  thou- 
sand and  twenty  forms  of  Being,  that  is  to  say,  the 
infinite  variety  of  these  forms,  which  Hinduism 
adores.  As  they  are  of  every  kind,  vague  and 
diverse,  so  the  religion  will  be  diverse  and  vague. 
Its  sects,  its  rites,  its  divinities,  its  doctrines  are 
innumerable.  It  is  impossible  to  grasp  it,  to  dis- 
cover its  dogmas  and  fundamental  articles  of  faith, 
to  disentangle  its  great  general  outlines.  There  is 
everything  in  Hinduism.  Take  all  the  beliefs  of 
the  human  race,  all  the  religious  observances  which 
express  these  beliefs,  Christianity,  Islamism,  Bud- 
dhism, ancient  polytheism,  fetichism ;  the  worship 
of  the  forces  of  nature,  the  worship  of  ancestors,  of 
demons,  of  the  sparrow-hawk,  of  animals;  plunge 
all  this  into  a  philosophic  pantheism,  and  you  will 
have  that  extraordinary  whole,  made  up  of  contra- 
dictions and  incoherences,  which  is  called  Hinduism. 

The  Brahman  who,  concentrating  his  thought, 
strives  to  lose  himself  in  Brahma;  this  inert  fakir 
who,  with  arms  stretched  for  years  toward  the  sky, 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.    HINDUISM.        147 

aspires  to  the  paradise  of  Siva ;  this  rajah  who,  in 
honor  of  Vishnu,  the  charitable  god,  devotes  three 
hundred  rupees  daily  for  the  support  of  the  poor; 
this  Saktist,  who  plunges  into  mystic  orgies;  this 
Sudra,  kneeling  before  a  round  stone — these  all  are 
members  of  the  great  religious  community  of  India. 
Between  the  different  sects  there  is  no  profound 
separation.  The  worshipper  of  Siva  calls  the  wor- 
shipper of  Vishnu  a  brother.  Not  that  he  sees  in 
Vishnu  a  second  divinity,  equal  or  inferior  to  Siva, 
but  that  he  considers  Vishnu  as  also  manifesting 
Siva,  as  himself  contained  in  Siva.  Each  god  is  so 
varied  in  his  forms  and  his  attributes  that,  in  certain 
forms  and  certain  attributes  common  to  all,  they  all 
meet  and  blend.  Siva,  who  is  lord  of  death,  is  also 
lord  of  life.  He  is  love  and  terror;  harmful  and 
benignant ;  he  is  the  great  ascetic ;  he  is  a  scholar 
and  a  philosopher;  he  is  a  mountaineer,  merry  and 
wild ;  a  Bacchus,  drunken  and  dancing,  followed  by 
a  troop  of  intoxicated  buffoons.  His  images  express 
the  diversity  of  these  attributes;  he  has  five  faces, 
six  arms,  three  eyes,  a  thousand  and  eight  names. 
Hence,  his  cult  is  within  the  reach  of  all.  The 
Hindu  professor  who  was  my  guide  yesterday  in 
the  University  bore  on  his  forehead  the  three  hori- 
zontal lines  of  the  Sivaists.  Probably  he  adores  in 
Siva,  "the  producer  and  the  destroyer" ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  eternal  activity  of  Being  which,  unfolding 
itself  with  this  double  rhythm,  organizing  and  dis- 
solving all  beings,  may  be  simply  a  supreme  God, 
personal  and  creative.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
the  black  worshipper  expels  demons  by  covering  his 


148  IN  INDIA. 

cabin  with  the  excrement  with  which  Siva's  bull  has 
furnished  him ;  when  he  sprinkles  the  stone  which 
symbolizes  the  god ;  when  he  rings  a  bell  to  awaken 
it ;  when  he  dresses  this  stone ;  when  he  covers  it 
with  food, — with  cream,  with  curry,  with  rice,  with 
cakes, — when  he  deluges  it  with  perfumes,  he  prac- 
tises only  the  savage  cult  of  the  stone  and  the  bull. 

Nor  have  they  any  system  of  morals,  anterior  to 
religion  and  of  higher  range,  that  is  present  to  guide 
in  any  one  direction  the  mass  of  beliefs  and  cere- 
monials. The  orgies  of  certain  sects  and  the  self- 
torture  of  the  fakirs  are  two  forms  of  the  cult  of 
Siva.  It  matters  not  that  they  are  mutually  con- 
tradictory ;  the  series  of  sacred  texts  extends  over 
a  period  of  time  so  long,  they  were  composed  at 
periods  so  different  in  the  social  development,  they 
form  a  mass  so  enormous,  that  they  authorize  all 
morals  and  all  dogmas,  and  the  religion  of  each  sect 
forms  a  system  as  vague,  as  inconsistent,  as  the 
Hindu  religion  in  its  entire  mass. 

For  instance,  what  is  Vishnuism?  Originally, 
Vishnu  is  "the  preserver."  Between  Siva  who 
organizes  and  Siva  who  dissolves  there  is  a  space 
for  a  power  that  supports.  This  plant,  which  has 
sprung  out  of  the  soil,  will  presently  return  into  the 
soil ;  meanwhile,  by  the  effect  of  an  interior  force, 
it  lives  and  retains  its  form.  This  force,  which  thus 
sustains  the  entire  world,  is  Vishnu,  whose  ordinary 
symbol  is  very  appropriately  a  tree.  Becoming 
popular,  the  abstraction  becomes  also  a  distinct 
being,  a  personal  divinity,  without  whose  aid  the 
world  would  perish ;  hence,  a  divinity  who  is  chari- 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        149 

table  and  kind,  and,  in  ten  successive  incarnations, — 
as  a  fish,  a  tortoise,  a  wild  boar,  a  lion,  a  dwarf, 
Rama,  Krishna,  Buddha, — has  come  into  the  world 
for  its  salvation. 

Thus  multiplied  and  developed,  Vishnu  disappears, 
as  a  stem  is  concealed  by  its  own  vegetation ;  and 
nothing  further  is  seen  of  him  but  his  incarnations. 
Two  of  these,  Rama  and  Krishna,  are  especially 
popular,  and  the  cult  and  doctrines  of  their  wor- 
shippers go  on  changing  and  multiplying,  extending 
their  ramifications  through  the  centuries.  Sects 
produce  other  sects;  and,  around  the  central  stem, 
such  a  mass  of  them  have  budded  forth  that  only 
this  confused  mass  can  be  perceived.  In  the 
eleventh  century,  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth, 
twice  in  the  fifteenth,  again  in  the  sixteenth  and 
eighteenth,  and  once  more,  very  recently,  religious 
leaders  have  arisen  who  have  added  to  the  exten- 
sion of  Vishnuism.  Some  of  these  teachers,  pan- 
theists, recognize  only  one  substance  in  divers 
manifestations;  others  distinguish  two  irreducible 
principles.  Madhava  accepts  all  the  gods,  but  sub- 
ordinates them  to  Vishnu,  who  alone  is  immortal. 
Some  do  not  concern  themselves  with  metaphysical 
speculations.  They  make  no  address  to  the  intel- 
lect ;  they  appeal  only  to  the  heart.  One  thing 
only  is  important,  faith  in  Krishna,  who  has  loved 
mankind ;  and,  with  this,  good  will  and  love  to 
our  brethren,  all  living  creatures.  Besides  these 
teachers,  who  are  the  greatest,  there  is  an  infinity  of 
others.  As  soon  as,  amid  the  suffering  multitude, 
there  stands  up  a  man  as  a  messenger  of  God,  he 


150  IN  INDIA. 

finds  disciples;  a  sect  gathers  around  him.  Mean- 
while legends  grow  and  multiply;  a  thousand  rude 
images  translate  to  the  ignorant  masses  the  fervent 
ideas  of  an  inspired  few.  In  turn,  these  men  are 
venerated  as  gods,  as  partial  incarnations  of  divinity. 
It  is  singular  that,  instead  of  being  mutually  hostile 
or  destructive,  these  different  beliefs  add  themselves 
to  one  another,  subsist  together  upon  the  trunk  of 
Vishnuism,  as  last  spring's  off-shoot  grows  beside 
the  older  branches.  A  doctrine  of  the  eleventh 
century  will  have  adepts  who  live  as  brethren  with 
the  disciples  of  a  master  not  fifty  years  dead.  Like 
a  living  thing,  the  religion  of  Vishnu  retains  all  the 
forms  through  which  it  has  passed,  all  the  scions 
which  it  has  thrown  out  in  the  different  centuries. 
Like  a  living  thing,  also,  it  contains  in  itself  the 
principle  of  its  development,  while  it  draws  material 
from  its  environment.  The  idolatry  of  the  black 
races,  Buddhism,  the  religions  of  Islam,  Christianity, 
have  in  their  turn  furnished  elements  which  it  has 
assimilated. 

To-day,  destitute  of  precise  dogma,  of  regular 
hierarchy,  formed  by  a  hundred  groups  living  one 
beside  another,  it  suggests  those  primitive  organ- 
isms, those  pulpy  creatures  with  tentacles  innumer- 
able, destitute  of  vertebrae  or  bony  system,  capable 
of  resisting  any  mutilation  exactly  because  they 
are  composed  of  independent  centres,  of  which  each 
could  be  wounded  to  death  without  the  destruction 
of  the  whole.  Such  is  also  Hinduism,  of  which  this 
religion  of  Vishnu,  so  varied  and  so  comprehensive, 
is  nevertheless  but  a  part.  At  Calcutta,  an  English- 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        151 

man  was  expressing  in  my  presence  his  regret  at  the 
meagre  success  of  the  Protestant  missions.  A  few 
Hindus  are  converted,  frequently  from  interested 
motives,  to  obtain  employment  from  Europeans. 
After  some  years  they  return  into  their  caste  and 
their  sect.  The  Brahmans  listen  with  patience, 
toleration,  and  curiosity.  Their  own  religion  is  a 
thing  too  fugitive  and  multiple  to  be  encountered 
hand  to  hand.  It  cannot  be  refuted,  as  English 
missionaries  seek  to  refute  the  Muhammadan  faith. 
Instead  of  being  destroyed  or  arrested  by  the  obsta- 
cle which  the  apostles  of  Christianity  oppose  to  it, 
so  powerful  is  the  vitality  of  Hinduism,  so  great  its 
adaptive  faculty,  that  it  surrounds,  envelops,  ab- 
sorbs the  obstacle  ;  and  pursues  its  growth,  enriched 
by  a  new  philosophic  and  religious  idea.  Thus  the 
Brahman  teachers  offer  to  receive  the  Christ  among 
the  three  hundred  and  thirty  million  divinities  of 
the  Hindu  pantheon,  provided  it  be  permitted  them 
to  consider  him  as  one  of  the  forms  of  Vishnu,  incar- 
nated for  Europeans.  Thus,  at  Calcutta,  the  new 
sect,  the  Brahmo-Somaj,  adopts  the  moral  theism  of 
English  liberal  Christianity.  The  existence  of  a 
personal  God,  eternal,  distinct  from  creation ;  the 
paternal  government  of  the  world ;  the  distinction 
of  soul  and  body  ;  future  rewards  and  punishments — 
all  these  general  ideas  of  that  moderate  and  reason- 
able philosophy  now  current  in  England,  this  sect 
freely  adopts.  In  the  same  way,  formerly,  Hindu- 
ism, not  rejecting  but  only  eliminating  slowly  the 
dogmatic  elements  of  Buddhism,  fed  upon  its  sub- 
stance. Gentleness,  universal  kindness,  extended 


152  IN  INDIA. 

even  to  animals,  asceticism — by  all  these  traits  the 
soul  of  Sakya-Muni  still  inhabits  the  peninsula. 

Thus  lives  and  grows  the  religion  of  India,  the 
most  plastic  of  all  religions,  the  most  capable  of 
adapting  itself  to  circumstances;  so  complex,  made 
up  of  elements  so  dissimilar  and  changeful,  so  un- 
certain in  form  and  direction,  that  it  does  not  seem 
to  be  a  religion ;  and  still  it  may  be  called  such,  as 
we  give  the  name  of  India  to  this  geographic  whole, 
made  of  countries  and  climates  so  diverse ;  as  we  call 
Hindu  this  human  group  where  are  mingled  races 
of  all  colors  and  all  stages  of  civilization,  and  yet, 
not  without  a  certain  unity.  At  first,  clear,  at  its 
pantheistic  source;  then  made  obscure  by  the  relig- 
ious ideas  of  conquered  and  conquering  peoples;  ex- 
tended over  thirty  centuries,  of  which  each  one  has 
modified  its  form  and  added  to  its  contents;  to-day 
the  Hindu  religion  is  spread  out  as  an  immense  net- 
work of  beliefs,  observances,  morals,  philosophies, 
sects,  in  which  the  eye  no  longer  can  recognize  any 
general  outlines.  So  the  Ganges,  broad  and  turbid, 
swollen  with  the  incessant  afflux  of  tributary  rivers, 
loaded  with  vegetable  debris  as  it  flows  through 
jungles,  through  ancient  cities,  through  English 
cities,  overflows  its  banks,  spreading  out  in  unde- 
fined sheets,  covers  great  extents  of  country  with 
its  milky  water,  then  slackens  its  current,  deposits 
its  mud  and  fertilizing  slime;  and  thus  extending  its 
length  and  its  undefined  delta,  divides,  ramifies,  is 
lost  in  a  thousand  obscure  and  tortuous  mouths. 

Half  seen,  half  guessed  at  in  its  great  features, 
I  leave  this  religious  world  of  India.  This  even- 


BENARES.     BRAHMANISM.     HINDUISM.        153 

ing  I  bid  adieu  to  great  Benares,  and  I  have  come 
once  more  to  the  sacred  shore  of  the  old  Ganges, 
where,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  morning  light, 
I  felt  the  rustling,  palpitating  life  of  this  ancient 
race  of  mankind. 

I  have  sent  my  guide  away,  and  wander  along  the 
bank  alone.  The  crowd  is  gone  from  the  palaces 
and  the  great  pyramidal  stairs.  I  hear  the  little 
sound  of  the  water  against  the  marble — the  quiver- 
ing water,  on  whose  surface  a  faint  rose-color  still 
trembles,  which  now  dies,  giving  place  to  pale  lights, 
wan  gleams.  In  the  peaceful  atmosphere  of  even- 
ing, things  come  out  clearer  and  more  solid  than  in 
the  glitter  of  the  day.  Opposite  me,  across  the 
great  slow  river,  there  is  the  pallid  stretch  of  bar- 
ren sands.  Between  the  desert  and  the  lofty  pagan 
edifices  the  Ganges  describes  its  gradual  curve. 

I  wander  at  random  over  the  pavements,  among 
the  blocks  of  a  ruined  temple,  between  red  columns, 
in  front  of  imposing  palaces.  The  last  women  com- 
ing up  from  the  river,  laden  with  their  water-jars, 
pass,  slow  and  stately.  Great  lean  dogs  lie  stretched 
out  on  the  steps ;  and  here  and  there  between  the 
chapels  of  pink  granite,  the  cow,  a  living  idol,  re- 
poses from  the  day's  adoration.  A  few  Brahmans, 
their  followers  all  gone,  remain  solitary,  seated  upon 
their  stone  tables ;  two  of  them  are  murmuring  with 
modulations  as  of  a  plain-chant,  the  last  prayers  of 
the  evening;  three  others  are  silent  in  the  presence 
of  the  gray  water — the  gray  water,  rippling  and 
flowing  eternally. 

And  now,   above,    from  a  terrace  resound  deep, 


154  IN  INDIA. 

heavy  strokes  of  a  gong,  whose  vibration  strikes 
through  me,  and  then  the  solitary  voice  of  a  trumpet 
arises,  nasal  and  strident,  in  the  vast  silence — minor 
scales,  simplified  and  rapid,  with  the  sharp  timbre  of 
a  bagpipe — plaintive  notes,  prolonged,  repeated  with 
insistence,  like  a  grief  that  one  cannot  leave  alone ; 
unexpected  modulations,  almost  discords,  which 
disturb  and  torment;  a  peculiar  rhythm,  a  Hindu 
music,  made  for  the  soul  of  a  different  humanity,  so 
sad  in  its  very  strangeness,  that,  without  compre- 
hending it,  one  shivers  at  the  sound. 

Darkness  has  invaded  all  the  space;  the  long  row 
of  temples  has  disappeared  into  the  night.  The 
three  Brahmans  are  still  there,  seated  on  their  heels, 
their  heads  bent  toward  the  dark  water. 

And  still  I  hear  this  bagpipe  voice. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
LUCKNOW.    CAWNPUR.    AGRA. 

DECEMBER  6. 

THIS  India  is  very  varied.  At  seventy  leagues 
from  Benares,  the  great  pagan  city,  begins  another 
world.  Lucknow  is  a  Muhammadan  and  English 
city.  Sumptuous  hotels,  elegant  white  villas  in  their 
luxuriant  grounds,  broad  avenues,  vast,  well-kept 
parks  where  trot  well-appointed  riders,  companies 
of  Scots  Greys,  with  blond  soldierly  faces,  factory 
chimneys  smoking  on  the  horizon — these  are  what 
I  have  already  seen  in  Calcutta.  The  Saracenic 
architecture  of  the  mosques  is  beautiful  and  simple, 
tranquillizing  after  the  Hindu  frenzies.  But  the 
material  is  poor;  the  buildings  are  plaster,  for  which 
reason  one  has  no  desire  to  see  them  again. 

The  most  beautiful  thing  here  is  nature,  happy 
and  peaceful,  not  licentious  and  oppressive,  as  in  the 
humid  South.  The  sky  is  of  a  pale  blue;  the  air  is 
stirred  with  a  light  breeze,  that  is  almost  cool ;  in- 
stead of  endless  tall  palms,  there  are  slender  trees 
with  delicate  rustling  foliage.  Oranges  and  man- 
darins shine  golden  in  the  groves;  and  great  fragile 
roses,  more  splendid  than  ours,  spread  a  familiar 
perfume.  Such  must  be  Persian  nature,  in  the 
poems  of  Firdousi. 

155 


156  IN  INDIA. 

There  is  the  same  tranquil  beauty,  the  same  happy 
blossoming  of  flowers,  in  the  cemetery  of  Lucknow 
where  lie  the  dead  of  1857.  The  Residence,  which 
Sir  Henry  Lawrence  with  his  handful  of  soldiers  so 
long  defended,  is  a  heap  of  ruins,  blackened  by  fire, 
torn  by  cannon-shot,  all  covered  now  with  the  green 
of  climbing  plants,  where  flame  great  drooping 
clusters  of  yellow  flowers. 

I  have  been  re-reading  the  story  of  the  siege. 
What  impresses  one  in  this  narrative  is  the  senti- 
ment that  supported  the  defenders.  There  was 
something  besides  courage  and  love  of  country  or 
desire  of  glory ;  I  mean,  first,  a  certain  grave  pride 
and  tenacity;  and  then,  a  religious  sentiment  very 
serious  and  very  lofty.  Every  morning  the  officers 
and  soldiers,  with  the  women  and  children  who  had 
been  brought  into  the  Residence  for  shelter,  sang 
psalms — those  which  their  persecuted  Puritan 
ancestors  had  sung  to  strengthen  their  courage  and 
support  them ;  and  the  grand  Biblical  verses  gave 
them  that  grave  and  silent  enthusiasm,  that  fervor, 
which  makes  men  able  calmly  and  coolly  to  sacrifice 
their  lives.  "Here  lies  Henry  Lawrence,  who  tried 
to  do  his  duty.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
his  soul !  "  says  a  slab  in  the  little  fragrant  cemetery. 

To-day,  in  Cawnpur,  I  have  seen  the  well  into 
which  Nana  Sahib  flung  the  still  palpitating  bodies 
of  the  women  and  children  massacred  at  his  com- 
mand. All  around  it  is  now  the  silence  of  a  great 
park,  and  the  calm  of  flowers.  A  marble  angel  with 
folded  wings  stands  on  the  edge  of  the  well,  which 
has  been  surrounded  with  a  Gothic  balustrade.  The 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  157 

downcast  eyes  have  a  divine  serenity,  the  clasped 
hands  droop  with  a  gesture  of  forgiveness. 

DECEMBER  7. 

We  are  on  our  way  toward  the  Musalman 
country,  going  straight  to  the  Northwest.  I  much 
admire  the  Indian  railways.  In  the  cabinets  dc 
toilette  you  can  have  a  douche;  there  are  little  beds 
that  can  be  pulled  down  if  you  wish  to  recline;  and, 
by  night,  every  traveller  of  first  or  second-class  has 
a  right  to  one  of  these  little  beds.  If  you  wish  to 
have  your  meals  on  the  road,  you  notify  the  con- 
ductor, who  orders  them  by  telegraph,  and  the  table 
is  ready  at  the  stations  where  the  train  stops,  in  the 
morning,  for  breakfast ;  at  one  o'clock,  for  tiffin ;  at 
six,  for  dinner.  Thus  you  traverse,  without  fatigue, 
distances  of  a  thousand  miles;  and  you  think  with 
pity  of  those  poor  travellers  who,  leaving  Paris  by 
evening  train,  reach  Marseilles  or  Brest,  tired  to 
death,  and  feverish  with  the  sleepless  night. 

Among  my  travelling  companions  I  observe 
always  the  same  friendly  and  social  disposition. 
Officers,  missionaries,  business  men — in  fifteen 
minutes  you  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  them 
all,  and  there  is  the  courteous  conversation  of  gentle- 
men, almost  always  instructive.  They  are  interested 
in  public  affairs,  they  have  ideas  as  to  the  future  of 
India,  as  to  the  progress  of  Russia.  One  of  them 
said  to  me  that  in  fifty  years  India  would  have  its 
autonomous  parliament.  He  is  an  advocate  of  this. 
"Our  duty,"  he  says,  "is  the  education  of  India." 
Observe,  to  make  an  Englishwoman  of  her— the 


I5«  IN  INDIA. 

old  Asiatic  queen!  "When  this  education  is  com- 
pleted, we  shall  have  nothing  further  to  do  but  to 
withdraw.  We  shall  have  done  our  duty  by  India." 
His  daughters  listened,  two  charming  English  girls, 
all  fresh  and  pink,  in  their  simple  gowns  of  light 
flannel.  The  calmness  and  gravity  of  their  faces 
were  striking.  These  are  not  adventurers,  these 
English  colonists,  but  honest,  energetic  fathers  of 
families,  who  live  in  all  the  peace  and  happiness  of 
an  English  home. 

"England  is  doing  her  duty  toward  India;"  she 
is  civilizing  India.  For  instance,  to  destroy  caste 
prejudices,  she  is  employing  a  very  effectual  method, 
she  makes  the  Hindus  travel.  By  traversing  differ- 
ent regions  of  the  peninsula,  by  elbowing  each  other 
in  railway  trains,  they  learn  much,  and  their  minds 
must  needs  be  enlarged.  For  this  reason  the  railway 
companies  keep  their  prices  as  low  as  possible.  The 
ticket  on  which  my  "boy"  travels  three  thousand 
miles,  from  Calcutta  to  Calcutta,  by  Delhi  and  Bom- 
bay, costs  forty-four  rupees  (twenty-two  dollars). 
Consequently,  the  third-class  carriages  are  always 
crowded  with  Hindus,  a  motley  and  picturesque 
load. 

This  line,  constructed  and  owned  by  an  English 
company,  is  worked  by  the  native  people.  Hindu 
are  the  engineers,  Hindu  the  conductors  and  the 
station-masters,  which  is  at  once  apparent  by  the 
way  the  service  is  carried  on.  There  is  none  of  the 
automatic  precision,  the  calm  exactitude,  the  grav- 
ity and  determination  of  English  employes.  At 
Benares  I  desired  to  send  my  luggage  at  once  to 


LUCKNOW.     CAWNPUR.    AGRA.  159 

Bombay.  Thereupon  the  station  was  thrown  into 
confusion ;  there  were  colloquies  between  the 
station-master  and  the  various  clerks  and  ticket- 
sellers,  and  my  "boy" ;  colloquies  quite  undignified, 
abounding  in  gestures  and  outcries,  a  great  flux  of 
words.  We  were  twenty  minutes  belated  in  start- 
ing, and  I  had  been  obliged  myself  to  paste  the 
labels  on  my  boxes.  No,  India  is  not  yet  altogether 
anglicized;  no,  her  "education"  is  not  yet  complete. 
At  the  stations  my  "boy"  gets  down  quickly  from 
his  carriage  to  see  if  I  desire  fruit.  He  is  forty-eight 
years  old,  short,  thin,  puny,  a  real  Bengali,  delicate 
and  sickly.  Very  precious,  this  "boy" — at  once  a 
guide,  servant,  interpreter,  and  companion.  Only 
it  is  understood  that  he  is  not  to  serve  at  table.  To 
see  a  Christian  hog  eating,  to  inhale  the  odor  of 
meats — this  would  be  a  pollution  not  to  be  thought 
of.  As  he  knows  the  English  language  well,  and 
is  familiar  with  the  country  we  traverse,  he  requires 
thirty  rupees  a  month;  on  this  he  feeds  himself, 
very  frugally,  it  is  true :  a  little  rice,  which  he  boils 
in  his  brass  jar,  and  eats,  sitting  on  his  heels  on  the 
ground ;  and  a  little  water  to  wash  his  mouth, 
according  to  ceremonial :  he  requires  nothing  more. 
His  duty  is  to  have  the  luggage  registered,  to  know 
the  number  of  my  packages,  to  be  perpetually 
counting  them,  to  see  that  nothing  is  lost.  Not  a 
handkerchief  can  go  astray  but  in  three  minutes  he 
knows  it,  and  obliges  me  to  rummage  in  all  my 
pockets.  Hindu  by  race  and  by  religion,  in  sect  a 
Sivaist,  he  seems  particularly  to  venerate  cows  and 
monkeys.  When  once  I  endeavored  to  rally  him  on 


160  /AT  INDIA. 

this  subject  he  smiled  mysteriously,  but  would  not 
speak. 

Cheddy  belongs  to  the  Sudra  caste,  which  was 
created  from  the  feet  of  Brahma,  we  are  told  :  "Pure, 
in  body  and  mind,  the  humble  servitor  of  the  higher 
classes,  gentle  of  speech,  never  arrogant,  seeking 
shelter  with  the  Brahmans,"  such  is,  says  Manu,  the 
true  Sudra.  This  one,  who  is  about  as  stout  and 
strong  as  a  grasshopper,  would  sink  under  the 
weight  of  a  satchel ;  and  it  is  agreed  that  he  shall 
carry  nothing.  To  make  amends,  he  follows  me 
like  my  shadow,  sleeping  across  my  threshold  like 
a  little  faithful  dog,  and  fights  like  a  lion  with  the 
beggars  who  assail  me.  He  knows  a  few  words  of 
Sanskrit,  also  English,  Bengali,  Hindustani,  and  the 
history  of  the  rajahs,  the  shahs,  and  the  khans;  and 
in  the  evening,  by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  seated  out- 
side my  door,  he  reads  in  some  mysterious  volume. 
But  notwithstanding  all  this  knowledge,  his  heart  is 
humble,  a  truly  timid  and  pure  Sudra's  heart. 

We  converse.  Although  a  pupil  of  Protestant 
missionaries  in  Calcutta,  he  is  not  a  convert.  He  is 
very  fond  of  the  English:  "English  judge  says  to 
poor  man:  'You  are  right';  and  to  rich  man:  'You 
are  wrong!"1  Here  we  have  the  little  fact  which, 
often  repeated,  secures  English  rule  in  India. 
Under  this  regime  the  peasant  is  unmolested.  He 
is  no  longer  hunted  down  and  harassed  by  all  the 
functionaries  of  the  native  or  Musalman  govern- 
ments: he  pays  a  small  regular  tax,  and  he  is  mas- 
ter of  his  earnings.  He  has  a  feeling  entirely  new 
to  the  Hindu  peasant,  that  of  security. 


LUCK  NOW.     C AWN  PUR.     AGRA.  161 

On  the  other  hand,  Cheddy  Lai  does  not  love  the 
British  soldier.  "Too  proud,"  he  says  to  me;  "poor 
Hindu  carry  all  their  luggage."  This  single  sen- 
tence suffices.  You  see  the  arrogance,  the  haughty 
silence  of  him,  of  Tommy  Atkins  realizing  in  India 
the  dream  of  the  English  lower  classes,  to  treat  him- 
self as  "a  gentleman,"  and  have  himself  waited  on. 
How  often  have  I  seen  him  as  he  steps  from  a  train, 
proud  and  calm,  his  head  held  high,  his  fair  hair 
well  pomatumed,  correctly  gloved,  switch  in  hand, 
making  his  spurs  clink,  and  with  his  lofty,  big- 
chested  stature  dominating  the  crowd  of  coolies 
who  stagger  under  the  weight  of  his  travelling- 
bags! 

Ever  toward  the  Northwest  we  run,  toward  the 
land  of  the  Musalman.  The  country  is  beautiful: 
interminable,  solitary  plains,  all  silvery  with  the 
white  shiver  of  tall  reeds.  To  the  horizon's  edge 
they  crowd,  one  upon  another,  lifting  out  of  its 
sheath  a  tall  dry  stem,  at  whose  summit  trembles  a 
plume  pale  and  light  as  smoke.  Sometimes  ante- 
lopes come  in  sight  at  a  little  trot,  then  stop  and 
look,  one  foot  held  up,  the  slender  head  turned 
anxiously  toward  us.  Storks  and  herons,  very 
serious,  watch  us  as  we  pass.  The  great  sky  is 
vaporous  with  light ;  before  us  the  rails  stretch  in 
shining,  rigid  lines,  meeting  in  the  distance,  at  a 
point  that  we  shall  never  reach !  By  night,  the 
darkness  and  solitude  in  these  desolate  plains  are 
solemn,  and  now  and  then  an  almost  imperceptible 
cry,  guessed  at  in  the  great  silence,  the  far-off  yelp 
of  a  jackal,  is  vaguely  sad. 


162  IN  INDIA. 

DECEMBER  9. 

I  am  in  the  capital  of  the  ancient  Moguls;  and 
there  are  many  things  to  see,  especially  in  architec- 
ture, palaces,  and  tombs.  For  they  struggled 
against  time  and  death,  these  Musalmans.  They 
did  not  accept  being  totally  abolished.  While  the 
peaceful  and  meditative  Hindu  returned  without  a 
struggle,  without  leaving  any  trace  behind  him,  into 
the  bosom  of  that  being  which,  for  an  instant,  had 
thrown  him  out  upon  the  surface  of  this  illusory 
world — they,  the  passionate  and  self-willed,  asserted 
themselves  after  death  in  jasper  and  marble,  as  they 
had  impressed  themselves,  during  their  lives,  with 
fire  and  sword. 

Akbar  was  one  of  these;  and  his  tomb  stands, 
intact  as  on  its  first  day,  in  the  silent  country.  Four 
great  gates,  facing  toward  the  four  cardinal  points, 
four  triumphal  arches,  flanked  with  minarets, 
crowned  with  bell-towers,  give  access  to  a  solitary 
garden,  where  golden  fruit  hangs  amid  the  foliage. 
From  each  gate  leads  a  broad  road  with  red  pave- 
ment, and  all  converge  toward  the  central  monument. 
It  is  at  once  Chinese  and  Saracenic,  this  tomb,  con- 
sisting of  a  succession  of  terraces,  retreating  as  they 
rise,  surmounted  by  Mongol  kiosks.  Here  the  solid 
rests  upon  the  open:  upon  rows  of  colonnettes  rise 
marble  walls  incrusted  with  precious  stones,  which 
are  set  with  absolute  regularity  and  blaze  upon  the 
perfect  white  of  the  surface.  Each  terrace  is  a 
quadrilateral,  paved  with  mosaic,  framed  in  its 
slender  columns,  connected  with  each  other  by 
Saracenic  arches.  Behind  these  marble  columns  a 


LUCKNOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  163 

corridor  surrounds  the  terrace,  closed  on  the 
outer  side  by  a  lace  of  white  stone,  exquisitely 
relieved  against  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky.  Light 
and  delicate  as  it  is,  this  architecture  of  perfect 
stone  seems  indestructible  in  this  youthful,  luminous 
atmosphere  which  penetrates  it  from  every  side. 

Within  the  centre  of  the  building,  at  the  mathe- 
matical point  where  the  diagonals  of  the  square 
intersect,  is  the  great  tomb  of  Akbar,  a  rectangle  of 
marble,  on  whose  surface  are  only  a  few  lotos  flowers 
in  relief,  the  frail  stems  creeping  over  it  very  timidly 
and  gently.  There  in  the  shadow  the  Mogul  has 
been  sleeping  for  two  hundred  years.  Outside,  to 
glorify  him  in  the  light,  there  are  the  graceful  curves 
of  the  carved  marble,  the  splendor  of  the  colored 
paving-stones,  the  profusion  of  mosaics,  the  purity 
of  perfect  lines,  the  consummate  art  which  cost  the 
labor  of  an  uncounted  multitude  of  workmen.  They 
are  all  dead ;  but  this  perfect  architectural  work, 
one  of  the  noblest  achievements  of  their  race,  stands 
here  under  the  sky  in  the  peaceful  country. 

There  are  sounds  of  accordions  floating  in  the  air. 
Some  English  soldiers,  lounging  on  the  terrace,  are 
playing  their  national  airs.  Leaning  upon  this  ex- 
quisite balustrade,  four  of  them  are  smoking  their 
briarwood  pipes;  and  the  smoke  curls  upward,  tran- 
quil and  calm,  like  the  rest  of  the  scene. 

It  is  good  to  note  with  accuracy  the  details  of  a 
vision  that  one  will  never  see  again.  To-day,  the 
gth  of  December,  at  half-past  eleven,  this  is  what  I 
have  under  my  eyes,  from  the  summit  of  the  tomb 
of  Akbar.  Outside  of  the  lacework  of  stone  and  the 


1 64  IN  INDIA. 

white  kiosks  that  bound  it,  lies  a  vast  square  carpet, 
the  great  park,  with  its  dense  clumps  of  trees  and 
the  brilliancy  of  its  flowers,  girt  with  a  bastioned 
wall.  To  the  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  fifteen 
hundred  feet  away  from  the  tomb,  are  the  four  im- 
posing gates,  four  angular  surfaces  of  red  granite, 
brightened  with  white  marble,  each  with  its  immense 
Moorish  archway.  Beyond,  in  every  direction,  lies 
the  great  tawny  plain.  Domes  of  trees  make  spots 
of  verdure  upon  the  withered,  yellow  grass.  On  the 
east  there  ar»  ribbons  of  blue  water.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  desolate  country,  columns  and  towers 
rise  among  the  shrubs  and  trees,  the  ruins  of  a  city 
which  has  left  only  these  few  imperishable  monu- 
ments; and,  standing  quite  by  itself,  the  pale  splen- 
dor of  the  marbles  of  the  Taj,  bluish  in  the  misty 
light,  like  heaps  of  distant  snow. 

At  the  citadel. — A  curious  fortress  of  red  sand- 
stone on  the  shore  of  the  Jumna.  On  the  summit 
of  the  rugged  walls  and  massive  bastions,  made  to 
resist  assaults  and  rising  like  cliffs  out  of  the  river, 
there  runs  the  most  delicate  embroidery  of  faintly 
tinted  marble,  rendered  more  exquisite  by  contrast 
with  the  huge  rough  masonry  on  which  it  rests.  It 
is  a  rock  crowned  with  lacework,  in  which  cannon- 
balls  have  made  pitiful  rents.  In  the  fortress  there 
is  everything — mosques,  harems,  palaces,  halls  of 
justice,  gardens,  a  whole  marble  city,  hidden  behind 
the  lofty  crenellated  walls,  a  whole  royal  city,  or 
rather,  it  is  an  entire  camp,*  whose  chief,  sheltered 

*  The  forts  of  Delhi  and  Agra  are  permanent  camps  copied  from 
the  Mongol  camps  of  the  steppes. 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  165 

behind  the  thickness  of  the  accumulated  stone, 
surrounded  by  his  ministers,  his  counsellors,  his 
generals,  his  poets,  his  musicians,  his  wives,  fulfilled 
his  duties  as  Emperor  and  Musalman,  enjoying, 
meanwhile,  the  refined  delights,  the  consummate 
luxury  of  an  artistic  and  amorous  tyrant. 

Crossing  a  drawbridge,  passing  under  a  fortified 
gateway  and  in  front  of  a  guard  house,  past  loung- 
ing European  soldiers,  one  comes  to  a  broad  paved 
road,  which  rises  between  the  bastions  and  gives 
access  to  the  interior,  where  edifices  are  crowded 
together  like  the  tents  in  a  camp. 

First,  the  Moti-Masjid.  Around  the  three  sides 
of  a  square  court  with  marble  pavement,  stands 
the  marble  mosque.  Fifty-eight  stout  columns, 
united  by  Saracenic  arches,  carved  in  floral  designs, 
support  the  heavy  flat  roof,  and  in  this  deep  gallery 
the  marble  has  the  soft,  warm  tints  of  old  ivory. 
There  is  nothing  more,  neither  painting  nor  wood- 
work— two  colors  only,  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  white 
of  the  marble;  and  this  sumptuous  simplicity,  this 
splendor  of  sunlight  on  the  pure  stone,  express 
better  than  anything  else  could,  the  spiritual  ardor, 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  Musalman  soul. 

Upon  the  roof,  three  pointed  domes  expand  their 
glittering  balls,  outline  their  admirable  curves  against 
a  pale  sky,  which  is  so  light,  so  pure,  that  it  seems  de- 
void of  air,  a  mere  ether,  containing  nothing  but  light. 

Then  there  is  a  succession  of  great  courtyards, 
closed  on  three  sides:  the  Court  of  Tournaments, 
where  horses  pranced,  and  tigers  and  elephants 
fought  in  the  presence  of  the  emperor;  the  Diwan-i- 


1 66  IN  INDIA. 

Khas,  where,  from  his  throne  of  black  marble,  Akbar 
pronounced  his  sentences  of  death;  the  Diwan-y- 
Am ;  the  Jahangir  Mahal ;  then  corridors  whose 
walls  are  incrusted  with  birds  and  flowers, — parrots 
of  emeralds,  lotus  flowers  of  lapis-lazuli, — whose 
windows  are  made  of  a  single  slab  of  marble  all  cut 
out  in  open-work.  And  with  all  this  wealth  of  dis- 
play, these  incrustations  of  gems,  the  outlines  and 
tones  and  lights  are  harmonious;  all  is  simple  and 
perfectly  proportioned,  as  in  a  Greek  temple.  This 
was  a  spontaneous  efflorescence  of  art,  perfect  like 
that  of  the  free  cities  of  Hellas,  testifying  to  a  no 
less  refined  education  of  taste  and  intellect,  reaching 
its  climax  under  religious  despots  who,  masters  of 
the  lives  and  of  the  labor  of  a  great  people,  crushed 
and  kneaded  the  human  material,  that  they  might 
render  eternal  their  own  vision  of  beauty. 

What  modern  poet  has  ever  had  a  dream  so 
delicious  as  that  Mogul  who  built  the  zenanas  and 
the  women's  bathrooms?  In  rooms  to  which  the 
daylight  has  no  access,  cool  with  the  coolness  of 
marble,  there  are  great  basins  of  jade,  the  running 
water  dripping  from  one  to  another  of  them.  Upon 
the  translucent  white  of  the  walls  and  columns,  ten 
thousand  little  facetted  mirrors  gleam  like  diamonds 
in  the  darkness,  and  reflect  the  light  of  innumerable 
tiny  lamps  burning  in  niches.  The  "Thousand  and 
One  Nights"  has  conceived  no  such  vision ;  it  is  a 
palace  of  fairies  or  genii,  situated  underground,  far 
from  our  world,  remote  from  sunlight,  built  of 
precious  stones,  full  of  darkness,  yet  lighted  up  by 
the  inner  fire  of  these  gems. 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  167 

Within,  imagine  what  Akbar  used  to  see — the 
graceful  crowd  of  Circassian  and  Arab  and  Hindu 
women,  the  pick  of  all  Asia,  chosen  by  a  tyrant's 
caprice ;  the  indolent  girls,  lying  along  a  basin's  edge, 
dipping  a  bare  foot  in  the  water;  the  sleepy  girls, 
lulled  by  the  cool  murmur  of  running  streamlets; 
girls  bathing,  wringing  their  heavy,  wet  hair, 
reflected  in  the  shadowy,  liquid  mirror;  and  the 
whole  wrapped  in  a  vague,  mysterious  light :  verily, 
for  Akbar,  after  affairs  of  state,  in  the  oppressive 
heat  of  noon-day,  this  was  a  cool,  peaceful,  deli- 
cious place. 

In  the  upper  part  of  the  fortress,  separated  by 
gardens  from  the  Emperor's  palace,  on  a  terrace 
overhanging  the  river  and  commanding  a  view  of 
the  whole  plain,  is  the  women's  apartment — six 
chambers  of  spotless  marble,  whose  walls,  of  open 
fretwork,  or  simply  with  rectangles  here  and  there 
cut  out,  allow  free  passage  to  light  and  air.  This 
harem  is  the  dainty  pearl  crowning  the  red  bastions 
of  the  fortress.  Literally,  these  dwelling-places  are 
made  of  precious  stones;  all  the  walls  are  jewels. 
Over  the  twelve  sides  of  each  of  the  slender  col- 
umns creep  delicate,  twining  stems,  whose  flowers 
are  amethysts  and  turquoises.  Along  the  marble 
walls,  other  flowers  in  marble,  rows  of  lilies  and 
tulips  whose  wide-spread  petals  droop  with  careless 
grace,  are  in  low  relief.  The  rooms  are  shaped  like 
gems;  octagons  whose  surfaces,  polished  by  the 
workman,  repolished  by  time,  play  with  the  light, 
imprison  it,  softened  and  tempered.  The  ceilings 
rise  in  cones,  cut  in  facets,  ending  in  an  acute  point 


1 68  IN-  INDIA. 

of  crystal.  Through  them  all  floats  a  cool  half-light 
in  which  gleam  the  arabesques  and  flowers,  inter- 
twined and  involved  in  a  design  past  all  disentangle- 
ment ;  while  here  and  there,  the  entire  thickness  of 
the  stone  has  been  tenderly  cut  out  in  open-work, 
making  a  delicate  lace  upon  the  white  light  of  the  sky. 

Around  these  rooms  are  terraces,  not  edged  with 
balustrades,  but  surrounded  with  air  only,  ending  off 
suddenly  at  the  vertical  drop  of  the  high  red  walls, 
perpendicular  to  the  river's  edge.  How  often  idle 
queens  and  odalisques,  forever  immured  in  this 
gleaming  white  paradise,  have  stretched  themselves 
out  along  this  marble  surface,  to  watch  the  sunlight 
die,  and  the  slow  waters  of  the  Jumna  grow  pallid, 
their  languid  eyes  filled  with  the  self-same  vision 
which  is  mine  at  this  moment!  A  rosy  radiance 
floats  in  the  immense  plain,  enwraps  all  the  vague 
forms.  Before  me,  on  a  marble  cornice,  a  parrot 
sits  motionless;  all  is  silent  in  the  slow  waning  of 
the  day.  Below,  the  cold  current  keeps  a  little 
light  in  motion,  among  the  shallows.  There  are 
camps  on  the  shore  from  which  the  smoke  rises 
straight.  Along  a  dusty  highroad,  oxen  are  draw- 
ing heavy  wains,  whose  massive  wheels  turn  slowly. 
Further  off,  a  line  of  camels  are  moving  along  with 
a  proud,  timid  undulation  of  their  swan-like  necks, 
a  melancholy  procession,  half-hidden  in  clouds  of 
dust,  half  lost  in  the  vaporous  light  which  floods  the 
whole  picture. 

DECEMBER  11. 

The  Taj,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  mausoleum 
erected  by  the  Mogul  Shah  Jahan  to  the  Begum 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  169 

Mumtaz-i-Mahal.  It  is  a  regular  octagon,  sur- 
mounted by  a  Persian  cupola  and  having  four 
minarets  at  its  angles.  The  building  itself,  stand- 
ing upon  a  terrace  commanding  the  adjacent  gar- 
dens, is  made  of  blocks  of  white  marble,  and  rises 
to  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty-three  feet. 
We  alight  from  the  carriage  in  front  of  a  noble  por- 
tico of  red  sandstone,  pierced  by  a  lofty  Moorish 
archway,  covered  with  white  arabesques.  We  pass 
under  the  arch,  and  the  Taj  appears  in  sight,  half  a 
mile  distant.  Probably  no  masterpiece  of  architec- 
ture produces  an  equal  effect. 

In  the  very  centre  of  a  marvellous  garden,  re- 
flected in  all  its  whiteness  in  a  canal  of  dark  water, 
which  lies  motionless,  with  clumps  of  black  cypresses 
and  great  mounds  of  crimson  flowers  on  its  banks, 
the  perfect  structure  rises  like  a  vision.  It  is  a 
floating  dream,  an  aerial  thing  without  weight,  so 
accurate  is  the  balance  of  the  lines  and  so  faint  the 
shadows  on  the  virginal,  translucent  stone.  These 
black  cypresses  which  frame  it ;  these  masses  of 
verdure,  through  which  here  and  there  the  blue  sky 
is  seen ;  this  turf  in  the  strong  sunlight,  with  the 
sharp,  black  shadows  of  the  trees  falling  across  it — 
all  these  solid  things  render  more  unreal  the  white 
vision  which  seems  ready  to  vanish  into  the  light  of 
the  sky.  I  walk  toward  it  along  the  marble  bank 
of  the  dark  canal,  and  the  mausoleum  assumes 
relief.  Approaching  nearer,  the  eye  takes  more 
and  more  delight  in  the  surfaces  of  the  octagonal 
monument.  These  are  rectangular  expanses  of  pol- 
ished marble,  on  which  the  light  rests  with  a  soft, 


17°  IN  INDIA. 

milky  lustre.  One  had  no  idea  that  a  thing  so 
simple  as  mere  surface  could  be  so  beautiful,  when  it 
is  broad  and  pure.  Then  the  eye  follows  the  grace- 
ful  and  well-ordered  intertwining  of  great  flowers, 
flowers  of  onyx  and  turquoise,  incrusted  along  a 
projecting  part  of  the  building,  and  the  harmony  of 
the  delicate  chasing,  the  marble  lacework,  the 
springing  arches,  the  notched  balustrades,  the  in- 
finite play  of  the  simple  and  the  decorated. 

The  garden  is  the  complement  of  the  building, 
both  uniting  to  form  the  one  artistic  conception. 
The  avenues  leading  to  the  Taj  are  bordered  with 
funereal  trees,  yews  and  cypresses,  that  render  still 
whiter  the  far-off  whiteness  of  the  monument.  Be- 
hind their  slender  cones,  trees  of  luxuriant  foliage 
are  massed,  adding  depth  and  opulence  to  the  more 
sombre  growth.  The  stiff,  dark  trees,  relieved 
against  this  light  foliage,  stirred  by  the  wind,  rise, 
solemn,  out  of  the  thickets  of  roses  and  the  great 
masses  of  unknown,  perfumed  flowers  of  this  soli- 
tary garden.  Combinations  like  these  are  the  work 
of  an  artist.  Broad,  open  lawns,  the  crimson  cups 
of  flowers,  petals  of  gold,  swarms  of  humming-bees 
and  parti-colored  butterflies  bring  light  and  joy  into 
the  gloom  which  befits  a  cemetery.  The  place  is  at 
once  luminous  and  serious;  it  has  all  the  rapture  of 
a  Musalman  paradise,  amorous  and  religious;  and 
the  poem  in  verdure  unites  with  the  poem  in  marble 
to  tell  of  peace  and  splendor. 

Inside,  at  first  all  is  darkness,  a  profound  night, 
with  the  faint  gleaming  of  a  grating  of  ancient 
marble,  a  mysterious  lacework  around  the  tombs, 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  171 

extending  on  and  on,  with  a  sepulchral  glimmer,  a 
yellowish  lustre,  as  if  the  light  itself  were  ancient 
and  had  been  absorbed  centuries  ago.  And  the  in- 
terlacing lines  and  curves  of  pallid  marble  continue, 
until  they  vanish  into  the  darkness. 

In  the  centre  are  the  tombs  of  the  lovers,  two 
sinall  sarcophagi,  on  which  rests  a  faint  light  from 
some  unknown  source.  This  is  all.  There  they  lie 
in  the  silence,  surrounded  by  these  perfect  things 
which  celebrate  their  love  lasting  into  death,  isolated 
from  all  the  world  by  the  mysterious  marble  lace 
which  enwraps  them  and  seems  to  float  around  them 
like  a  dream. 

High  above,  as  if  through  dense  smoke,  one  sees 
the  dome  rise  in  the  darkness,  rise  and  never  end ; 
and  its  walls  seem  vaporous,  the  marble  blocks 
unsubstantial.  All  is  aerial  here,  nothing  is  real  and 
solid;  this  is  a  world  of  visions.  Sounds  even  are 
no  longer  of  the  earth.  A  musical  note  uttered  here 
is  repeated,  above  one's  head,  in  regions  which  we 
cannot  see.  Pure  as  the  voice  of  an  Ariel,  it  grows 
fainter,  then  dies;  and  suddenly  is  heard  again,  far 
off,  glorified,  spiritualized,  multiplied  indefinitely, 
repeated  by  countless,  remote  voices,  by  an  unseen 
choir  of  angels  who  carry  it  up,  ascending  higher 
and  higher,  until  it  loses  itself  in  a  faint  sound 
which  remains  continuous,  hovering  on  like  the 
music  of  a  soul  over  the  tomb  of  the  beloved. 

I  visit  the  Taj  again  at  noonday.  Under  a  vertical 
sun  the  melancholy  phantom  is  dead,  the  gentle 
sadness  of  the  mausoleum  has  disappeared.  The 
great  marble  table  upon  which  it  stands  has  a 


1 72  IN  INDIA. 

blinding  glitter.  Reflected  back  and  forth  from  all 
sides  the  sunlight  multiplies  its  effect  a  hundredfold, 
and  some  of  the  facades  are  like  white-hot  metal. 
The  incrustations  are  sparks  of  living  fire,  and  their 
hundred  red  flowers  glow  like  burning  coals.  The 
sacred  texts  and  hieroglyphics  set  in  the  black 
marble  blaze,  as  if  written  by  the  ringer  of  an  angry 
god.  All  the  mystic  rows  of  lotus  and  lily,  in  relief, 
which  before  had  the  softness  of  yellowed  ivory,  are 
now  like  flames  upon  the  surface.  I  retreat  to  the 
edge  of  the  inclosure,  and,  dazzled,  I  see  for  an  in- 
stant, relieved  against  the  sky,  the  incandescent 
lines  and  surfaces  of  the  edifice,  implacable  in  its 
virgin  whiteness.  Certainly  this  strict  simplicity 
and  the  intensity  of  this  light  have  something 
Semitic  in  their  effect,  like  "the  flaming  sword"  of 
the  Bible.  The  minarets  rise  into  the  blue  like 
columns  of  fire. 

All  around  it  is  the  cool  darkness  of  the  overarch- 
ing trees,  where  I  linger  until  twilight.  This  garden 
is  the  work  of  a  worshipper,  who  desired  to  glorify 
Allah.  It  is  a  place  for  religious  joy:  "Let  no  man 
who  is  not  pure  in  heart  enter  the  garden  of  God," 
says  the  Arab  text  graven  above  the  gate.  There 
are  parterres  which  are  heaps  of  velvet,  some  of  the 
strange  flowers  are  like  bunches  of  crimson  moss. 
Trunks  of  trees  rise  all  blue  with  convolvulus;  else- 
where great  red  stars  gleam  amid  the  dark  foliage. 
Among  the  flowers  countless  butterflies  make  a  per- 
petual cloud.  Many  beautiful  little  living  things, 
tiny  striped  squirrels,  and  birds  in  abundance,  green 
parrots,  brilliant  perroquets,  a  whole  little  world, 


LUCK  NOW,     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  173 

splendid,  happy,  and  secure;  protected  against 
vultures  and  hawks  by  white-clad  guards  who  with 
their  long  pea-shooters  keep  away  all  mischief  and 
cruelty  from  this  place  of  peace. 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  motionless  water  water- 
lilies  and  the  lotus  outline  their  stiff  petals,  seeming 
to  rest  solidly  upon  the  dark  mirror.  Between  the 
dense  masses  of  foliage  there  are  glimpses  of  English 
lawns  all  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  of  spaces  of 
blue  sky  sometimes  traversed  by  a  triangle  of  white 
storks ;  and  now  and  then  the  far-off  vision  of  the 
phantom  tomb,  a  sad,  virginal  ghost.  How  calm 
and  splendid  is  this  solitude,  full  of  a  pleasure  at 
once  intoxicating  and  serious !  It  is  the  beauty,  the 
love,  the  sunlight  of  Asia,  of  which  Shelley  dreamed  ! 

DECEMBER  12. 

After  three  days  devoted  to  marble  palaces,  one 
wearies  of  exquisite  things.  And  so,  this  morning, 
instead  of  taking  the  railway  train,  I  take  a  carriage, 
that  I  may  go  to  see  a  big  bit  of  country,  the  real 
Hindu  land,  not  merely  from  a  railway  train,  but 
loitering  along  the  roads  at  pleasure,  through  the 
villages,  far  from  the  marvels  that  tourists  visit. 
We  drive  slowly,  and  are  the  whole  day  in  making 
the  thirty  miles  between  Agra  and  Muttra. 

There  is  nothing  very  noticeable  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  country ;  the  palms  have  disappeared ; 
there  are  little  bushy  trees,  suggestive  of  the  apple 
orchards  of  Normandy;  and  the  plain  is  spotted 
with  patches  of  russet  grass  and  tall  yellow  reeds. 
This  December  morning  is  like  the  very  early  hours 


174  IN  INDIA. 

of  one  of  our  beautiful  June  days,  still  and  bright. 
A  herd  of  meagre  buffaloes  goes  past  us,  their  long 
black  heads  bent  resignedly  toward  the  ground,  and 
for  a  long  time  these  are  the  only  living  creatures 
that  we  see. 

Later  we  come  to  a  group  of  little  huts,  one  of 
those  Hindu  villages  whose  aspect  has  not  changed 
in  three  thousand  years,  where  there  has  been  always 
the  same  calm,  primitive  life,  since  the  beginning  of 
history.  These  villages  would  be  interesting  study, 
for  they  have  kept  the  ancient  traditions  of  our 
Aryan  races.  Their  organization  is  like  that  of  the 
primitive  Greek  and  Germanic  communes.  There 
is  no  written  law:  all  is  regulated  by  immemorial 
and  unexplained  custom ;  the  whole  political  life  is 
instinctive,  as  in  an  ant-hill.  It  is  a  natural  group- 
ing, the  true  form  of  grouping  of  Hindu  society. 
The  Mongols,  and  before  their  time,  the  Pathans, 
were  able  to  destroy  the  native  monarchies  and 
establish  everywhere  their  own  rule.  But  the 
village  was  a  molecule  too  minute  to  attract  atten- 
tion, too  small  and  coherent  to  be  broken  up ;  and 
it  is  this  which  has  enabled  the  Hindu  world,  the 
Hindu  spirit,  Hinduism  itself,  to  subsist,  through 
centuries  of  tyrannies  and  exterminations. 

I  can  see  in  passing  only  the  out-door  aspect : 
these  are  scenes  of  other  days  which  carry  one's 
thought  back  to  the  Homeric  age.  A  group  of 
women  around  a  well,  "each  bearing  the  amphora, 
one  hand  on  the  hip,"  naked  babies,  wallowing  in 
the  dust,  little  girls  clad  with  a  single  piece  of  red 
stuff,  which  leaves  half  the  childish  figure  bare; 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  1 75 

with  the  timid,  frightened  mien  of  kittens  they  run 
back  as  we  come  near.  The  potter,  seated  on  the 
ground,  is  kneading  his  clay ;  old  wrinkled  women, 
with  skins  like  parchment,  are  pounding  rice  in  a 
mill  of  rough  stone ;  a  little  naked  group  of  scholars 
are  gathered  around  the  master,  who  is  humming  in 
a  kind  of  plain-song,  as  he  unrolls  a  manuscript. 
At  the  threshold  of  a  door,  a  man  sitting  on  his 
heels,  with  the  air  of  a  patient  martyr,  has  given 
himself  into  the  hands  of  a  barber  who  is  tenderly 
shaving  his  head.  There  are  beggars,  who  might  be 
centenarians,  wretched,  fleshless  creatures,  tottering 
on  their  sticks,  squealing  as  they  hold  out  a  black 
paw.  In  the  midst  of  the  road,  shoemakers,  sitting 
in  a  ring,  ply  the  awl,  and  smoke  at  a  hookah  whose 
mouthpiece  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  At  the 
end  of  the  village,  very  neatly  arranged  on  little 
tables,  are  a  few  dainty  bits  of  sugar-cane,  and  fresh 
leaves  of  green  betel  twisted  into  horns. 

Soon  it  is  left  behind  us,  this  little  world,  some- 
what stirred  by  our  passage,  and  we  are  again  upon 
the  highroad  which  cuts  the  plain  with  its  straight 
line.  Occasionally  we  pass  a  string  of  camels;  they 
move  along  with  a  soft,  haughty  step,  turning  from 
side  to  side  their  meagre,  thick-lipped  heads  at  the 
end  of  the  long  flexible  necks,  which  curve  and 
undulate,  with  the  rider  pitching  about  on  the  top 
of  the  backbone.  Then,  bands  of  peasants,  the 
head  and  the  waist  wrapped  with  white;  and 
women,  whose  arms  and  ankles  are  cuirassed  with 
porcelain  bracelets;  and  little  donkeys,  invisible 
under  their  huge  loads.  Sometimes  there  are 


176  IN  INDIA. 

enormous  rude  wains  with  heavy  wheels;  the  pole, 
a  little  tree  roughly  squared,  like  those  which  the  bar- 
barian peoples  must  have  used  in  their  migrations. 
These  are  drawn  by  great  white  oxen,  big  hunch- 
backed oxen,  with  short  muscular  necks,  their  horns 
painted  gold  color  or  blue.  Tranquil,  amid  the 
buzzing  of  the  eager  flies,  their  eyes  half-closed, 
they  move  along  with  a  stupid  air  of  triumph,  as  if 
they  knew  very  well  that  they  were  gods. 

On  every  side  are  the  great,  shining  fields  full  of 
green  harvests,  and  the  brilliant  garments  of  the 
women  who  are  reaping  seem  like  scattered  poppies 
and  violets  just  visible  in  the  dense  growth. 

DECEMBER  13. 

Last  evening  by  moonlight  we  reached  the  dak 
bungalow  of  Muttra.  It  is  an  abrupt  return  into 
the  world  of  Hinduism.  Here  Vishnu  was  incar- 
nated under  the  form  of  Krishna,  and  the  city  is 
consecrated  to  the  worship  of  this  hero.  By  turns, 
Hindu,  Greek,  Buddhist,  Musalman,  and  then  Hindu 
again,  Muttra  has  always  been  one  of  the  religious 
capitals  of  Asia;  it  is  celebrated  in  the  Baghavata 
Purana.  In  404  a  Chinese  pilgrim  counted  here 
twenty  monasteries  and  three  thousand  Buddhist 
monks.  Five  hundred  years  later  the  Musalmans 
invaded  the  country,  and  the  Brahmanic  pagodas 
which  had  been  reared  upon  the  ruins  of  the  Bud- 
dhist monasteries  were  destroyed  by  the  conquerors. 
From  1017  to  the  date  of  the  English  conquest, 
incessantly  trodden  down  by  the  Muhammadan 
chiefs,  Hinduism,  like  a  sturdy  and  deep-rooted 


LUCKNOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  17  7 

plant,  never  ceased  to  spring  up  again ;  and  no 
destruction  could  put  an  end  to  its  incessant  efflor- 
escence in  temples  and  chapels. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  Aurungzebe  levelled 
them  all  to  the  ground,  and  built  mosques  out  of 
the  material.  Fortunately  the  French  traveller 
Tavernier  had  seen  the  chief  pagoda,  and  his  de- 
scription reminds  one  of  the  temples  of  the  south, 
those  of  Madura  and  Trichinopoli.  "From  base  to 
summit  the  exterior  is  covered  with  figures  of  rams, 
monkeys,  and  elephants  in  stone,  with  niches  in 
which  are  monsters,  and  with  windows  up  to  the 
height  of  the  domes  and  balconies.  Statues  of 
monsters  are  in  a  ring  around  these  domes;  this  col- 
lection of  hideous  images  is  frightful  to  see."  Hav- 
ing paid  two  rupees,  he  was  permitted  to  behold  the 
god  himself.  "The  Brahmans  opened  a  door  and  I 
saw  a  kind  of  altar  covered  with  old  brocade,  on 
which  stood  the  great  idol.  The  head  was  of  black 
marble  and  the  eyes  appeared  to  be  rubies.  The 
body  and  arms  were  entirely  hidden  by  a  robe  of 
red  velvet.  Two  smaller  idols,  white-faced,  were 
placed  at  the  two  sides." 

He  is  to  be  seen  everywhere  here,  Krishna,*  the 
dark  god,  the  blue  god.  All  the  religious  pictures 
adorning  the  stalls  represent  him,  surrounded  by  his 
women,  playing  on  the  pipe,  a  smile  in  his  enam- 
elled eyes.  He  is  the  popular  divinity  of  India,  the 
good-humored,  laughing  god,  friendly  to  men.  He 
was  born  of  a  woman,  and  countless  poems  relate 

*  Probably  a   god   of   the   black,    pre-Aryan   races,  absorbed   by 
Hinduism. 


178  IN  INDIA. 

his  marvellous  childhood,  the  wickedness  of  the 
king  who  sought  him  out  among  the  other  children 
to  destroy  him,  the  humility  of  his  life  as  a  little 
shepherd,  his  flute  songs  during  the  rains  and  in  the 
hot  season,  the  instruction  that  he  gave  the  Brah- 
mans  while  yet  a  child,  his  sports  in  the  sacred 
waters  of  the  Jumna,  his  dances  with  the  gopis — the 
young  and  charming  cowherd  girls  of  Muttra — his 
amours  in  the  tropical  forest.  Meanwhile,  miracles 
proclaim  his  divinity.  He  destroys  dragons  and 
demons.  One  day,  as  he  is  dancing  with  his  young 
companions,  he  becomes  multiple,  and  each  girl  has 
him  in  her  arms.  He  raises  a  mountain  for  a  shelter 
to  the  human  race  against  aerial  genii.  He  charms 
all  things,  movable  and  immovable,  the  entire  crea- 
tion. "At  the  sound  of  his  flute,  the  young  girls 
hastened  thither,  happy  and  also  sad  with  love. 
The  cows,  hearing  this  flute,  stood  motionless,  the 
grass  in  their  mouths;  the  little  calves  with  de- 
lighted faces  forgot  to  feed.  The  gazelles  stretched 
their  necks;  the  soft  melody  disturbed  ascetics  and 
wise  men.  Rivers  turned  back  like  snakes,  and 
ceased  flowing.  Arrested  in  their  flight,  birds 
perched  at  his  side,  jealous  of  his  music,  and,  with 
closed  eyes,  listened  to  the  sounds  of  his  flute." 
Later  he  preaches  gentleness  and  self-abnegation ; 
forbids  pride  and  selfishness;  fights  against  "the 
Me  sentiment";  defends  the  weak  and  teaches  the 
brotherhood  of  all  mankind. 

This  is  a  singular  divinity,  with  traits  of  Orpheus, 
Adonis,  Hercules,  and  of  Jesus,  at  once  ascetic  and 
sensual.  To  die  to  the  world,  to  forget  one's  self 


LUCKNOW,     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  1 79 

for  love  of  the  divinity,  or  of  one's  neighbor,  this  is 
his  doctrine ;  a  teaching  which  would  seem  more 
fitting  for  the  austere  and  gentle  Buddha  than  for 
Krishna;  but  on  the  other  hand,  with  an  inexplicable 
contradiction,  he  teaches  a  free  abandonment  to  all 
the  gratifications  of  opulent  nature.  A  poor  hump- 
backed creature,  having  poured  lotus  perfume  upon 
Krishna's  feet,  rises,  erect  and  beautiful  as  a  queen, 
and  all  the  pollution  of  her  heart  is  washed  away. 

Then  men  proclaim  him  divine;  and,  in  the  uni- 
versal homage  which  hails  him,  Krishna,  the  shep- 
herd, disappears;  his  human  form  is  dissolved,  the 
"illusion"  which  concealed  him  vanishes;  through 
the  veil  which  covered  him  appears  a  vague,  radiant, 
pantheistic  idea,  a  universal  power  which  the  whole 
choir  of  nature  adores  :  "Thou  art  he  who  Greatest ; 
thou  art  the  creating  force,  O  sacred  Master;  it  is 
thou,  O  Lord,  who  makest  the  succession  of  births 
and  deaths;  thy  incarnations  have  revealed  thee  to 
man,  thou  art  the  productive  force,  thou  art  Brahma. 
The  fourteen  worlds  are  in  thy  mouth,  as  fruit  is 
between  the  teeth  of  a  monkey.  If  thou  with- 
drawest  them,  who  can  compel  thee  to  emit  them 
anew?  If  thou  hidest  thyself,  all  becomes  con- 
fusion, and  the  destroyed  bodies  have  no  longer  a 
covering  to  enwrap  them.  As  water  dwells  in  the 
lotus-leaf,  as  the  perfume  in  the  flower,  as  fire  in  the 
wood,  as  water  in  milk,  thus  thou,  in  thine  own 
form,  art  in  the  depths  of  all  being." 

These  pantheistic  flashes  strike  abruptly  through 
the  descriptive  luxuriance  of  the  poem;  and  then 
the  veil,  for  a  moment  lifted,  falls ;  the  metaphysical 


i8o  IN  INDIA. 

world,  of  which  there  was  a  glimpse,  is  again  shut 
away;  and  around  us  closes  in  "the  illusion"  of 
nature,  all  full  of  light  and  life.  "The  green  buds 
of  the  santal  tremble  at  the  extemity  of  the  branches 
like  limpid  drops  of  ambrosia.  When  they  heard 
the  sound  of  his  flute,  the  lotus,  the  jasmine,  the 
pandanas,  and  the  champak  quivered  in  their  hearts. 
The  flowers  became  the  color  of  the  salve  of  anti- 
mony and  of  red  lead ;  they  shivered,  they  were 
afraid,  the  blue  and  white  flowers."  The  simplest 
of  these  idyls,  the  most  ardent  and  splendid,  repre- 
sents the  young  divinity  with  the  shepherd  girls  of 
Muttra.  They  cannot  behold  without  rapture  his 
beautiful  dark  brow,  they  languish  for  love  of  him ; 
"and  like  white  lotus  flowers  whose  root  is  wounded 
under  the  water,  the  moonlight  of  their  downcast 
faces  shines  with  pallid  splendor."  It  is  a  poem 
like  one  of  the  luminous,  voluptuous  nights  of  India. 
It  is  like  a  southern  jungle,  where,  in  an  air  dense 
with  stupefying  perfumes,  butterflies,  strangely 
splendid,  fly  heavily,  and  impenetrable  tropical 
climbers  bar  your  path,  all  rustling  and  throbbing 
with  unseen  life.  Here  and  there,  the  strong  up- 
ward thrust  of  a  cocoanut  palm  leads  your  glance 
upward,  and  through  a  gap  in  the  dense  foliage  you 
can  see  for  an  instant  the  dazzling,  creative  orb 
which  fills  all  the  sombre  forest  with  its  heat,  and 
from  the  inert  slime  calls  forth  this  world  of  living 
things. 

DECEMBER  14. 

Upon  the  Jumna. — I  arrive  too  late  to  witness  the 
sacred  dip  of  all  the   population.     The  men  have 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  181 

gone,  and  only  a  few  groups  of  women  remain. 
Young  girls,  the  slender  torso  rising  out  of  a  blue 
drapery  which  falls  from  the  hips,  their  arms  lifted, 
the  wrists  crossed  upon  the  head,  standing  erect  on 
the  steps  that  lead  down  into  the  water,  watch  our 
boat  as  it  passes.  Others,  stooping,  are  entirely 
concealed  by  the  harmonious  folds  of  some  ample 
material ;  only  the  dark  face  is  visible  beneath  the 
light  drapery  resting  on  the  curve  of  the  head.  One 
little  girl,  throwing  off  her  garment,  stands  quite 
nude ;  she  stoops  toward  the  water,  half  bent  over  it. 
Another  child,  still  younger,  clasps  close  with  her 
slender  arms  the  pink  muslin  drapery  enveloping 
her  from  the  head  to  the  ankles  with  their  bands  of 
silver.  It  is  graceful  and  charming.  Some  have 
risen  and  slowly  lift  to  their  heads  the  heavy  copper 
vases  filled  with  river  water,  and  the  movement  of 
the  arms  and  the  torso  is  noble  and  graceful.  The 
faces  are  of  a  pure  oval,  a  little  rounded,  of  a  beau- 
tiful bronze  tint,  caressed  by  the  blackness  of  their 
waving  hair;  with  something  serious  and  sombre, 
almost  classic  in  their  features,  yet  not  without 
warmth  and  tenderness.  They  are  here  in  great 
numbers,  small  and  large,  chattering  and  laughing, 
playing  with  the  water  much  like  their  predecessors, 
the  Hindu  girls  beloved  of  Krishna;  washing  their 
hands  and  arms,  and  their  hair;  taking  off  and  put- 
ting on  their  great  veils;  spending  the  whole  day  in 
the  coolness  of  the  broad,  deep  river.  In  this  light, 
with  these  simple  draperies,  the  motion  or  gesture 
of  these  young  girls  gives  one  pleasure,  a  bare 
arm  lifted,  the  head  slowly  turning  upon  the  young 


1 82  IN  INDIA. 

neck,  a  bent  figure  lifting  itself.  It  is  indeed  a  very 
simple  and  quiet  pleasure  to  watch  this  play  of 
noble  colors  and  of  human  outlines  on  the  bank  of 
the  translucent  water,  upon  the  luminous  marble. 

An  hour's  drive  brings  us  to  Bindrabund,  which  is 
also  a  sacred  city.  Holy  places  are  numerous  in  this 
classic  corner  of  India.  The  shores  of  the  Jumna 
at  all  these  points  are  celebrated  in  the  great  epics. 

At  Bindrabund,  as  at  Muttra,  the  monkeys  swarm  ; 
they  frolic  in  the  streets  and  accompany  the  inhabi- 
tants to  their  matutinal  dip.  Now  they  gather,  ming- 
ling with  the  inquisitive  human  crowd, to  see  us  arrive; 
and  the  rapid  winking  of  their  eyes  is  much  more  in- 
telligent than  the  slow,  stupid  gaze  of  these  Hindus. 

Men  and  monkeys  live  here  the  same  idle  and 
abstemious  life.  They  eat  the  same  cereals,  they 
dwell  in  the  same  houses;  the  former  usually  estab- 
lished inside,  the  latter  more  commonly  clinging  to 
the  balconies,  or  perched  upon  the  roof,  where  they 
are  quite  at  their  ease,  the  lucky  rascals!  teasing 
each  other  or  cleaning  each  other  in  the  sunshine; 
the  theories  of  Darwin  are  put  in  practice  in  Bind- 
rabun,  and  the  human  being  is  peacefully  domesti- 
cated with  his  "poor  relations." 

Two  great  temples  are  in  process  of  building,  at 
the  expense  of  the  rajah.  One  is  nearly  done,  and 
will  be  completed  in  two  years ;  the  cost  is  estimated 
at  twenty-five  lacs  of  rupees  (about  a  million  and  a 
quarter  of  dollars).  The  architect,  the  workmen, 
the  sculptors,  are  all  natives.  He  is  the  greatest 
independent  prince  in  India,  this  rajah  of  Jaipur, 
who  supplies  the  money;  and  the  god,  with  his 


LUCK  NOW.     CAWNPUR.     AGRA.  183 

hundred  million  worshippers,  is  the  most  popular  of 
divinities.  Without  any  doubt,  Hinduism  is  very 
much  alive,  as  any  man  may  see  who  regards  these 
thousands  of  laborers  who  are  hewing  stone  for  the 
greater  honor  of  Krishna. 

The  architect,  delighted  to  receive  a  European 
visitor,  shows  me  his  plans,  which  appear  very  scien- 
tific and  geometrical.  He  explains  to  me,  later, 
the  detail  of  the  inferior  divinities  whose  niches  will 
surround  the  statue  of  Krishna.  I  observe  that  he 
says,  God,  not  the  god,  in  speaking  of  the  latter. 
"This,"  he  says,  "is  God's  dining-room.  Every  day 
the  value  of  a  hundred  or  two  hundred  rupees  in 
food  is  served  to  him  here,  by  the  rajah's  order ;  and 
it  is  then  distributed  among  the  poor." 

But  this  is  an  interesting  rajah !  He  is  a  civilized 
person,  I  am  told,  and  to  him  Jaipur  owes  its  Uni- 
versity. Why,  then,  does  he  build  this  temple  to 
Krishna?  What  idea,  vague  or  distinct,  does  he 
have  of  this  divinity  and  his  incarnations;  of  the 
entire  multitude  of  the  Hindu  gods;  of  their  ava- 
tars and  of  their  sacred  animals?  Is  his  faith  in 
any  degree  sincere?  Does  he  go  beyond  the  mere 
conformity  to  custom  and  to  the  religion  of  his 
country?  Is  he  conscious  of  any  lack  of  harmony 
between  his  ideas  and  his  religious  needs. 

I  am  glad  to  see  how  the  buildings  of  Agra  were 
constructed.  They  are  making  a  marble  lacework, 
in  imitation  of  those  airy  balustrades,  that  exqui- 
site guipure  which  gives  the  lightness  of  a  dream  to 
the  Mongol  edifices.  Fifteen  men,  bending  over  a 
block  of  stone,  are  cutting  it  out  with  jewellers' 


1 84  IN  INDIA. 

tools,  copying  a  complicated  design  of  interlaced 
leaves  and  steins.  This  being  completed,  they  turn 
the  stone,  and  work  from  the  other  side,  to  meet 
the  first  work;  with  what  care,  with  what  infinite 
precision,  may  be  understood  when  you  reflect  that 
on  the  two  sides  the  flowers  and  stems  must  per- 
fectly correspond.  Work  like  this  is  done  only  at 
great  loss;  one  block  of  marble  in  three  is  spoiled. 
I  also  saw  the  incrustation  with  gems ;  they  use  the 
lamp,  as  jewellers  do  in  setting  precious  stones. 

There  are  four  thousand  workmen.  The  average 
wage  is  four  annas  (about  eight  cents)  a  day.  The 
temple  will  have  been  five  years  in  building.  Not- 
withstanding the  expense,  and  the  length  of  the 
labor,  it  is  already  evident  that  this  building  will 
not  equal  the  perfect  edifices  of  the  Mongol  em- 
perors. The  marble  here  is  used  only  as  a  facing ; 
the  Mongol  work,  on  the  contrary,  was  absolutely 
sincere,  made  of  the  same  rare  material,  polished 
with  the  same  care,  in  the  invisible  portions  of  the 
building  as  in  its  exterior.  It  was  not  done  for  the 
purpose  of  being  admired;  it  was  an  end  in  itself, 
like  a  prayer  or  like  a  grand  psalm.  Provinces  of  men 
were  laid  waste  to  provide  means ;  at  it,  nations  wore 
out  their  hands  and  their  knees.  The  labor  lasted  a 
half  century;  and  the  building  was  reared  at  what  a 
cost  of  human  suffering!  But  the  work  was  abso- 
lutely beautiful.  In  like  manner  there  is  required  the 
long  and  silent  labor  of  a  thousand  invisible  roots,  of 
all  the  obscure  vessels  and  concealed  tissues,  a  slow 
elaboration  from  the  juices  of  the  whole  plant,  to 
expand  a  flower,  and  give  to  it  its  subtle  perfume. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DELHI.    JAIPUR. 

DECEMBER  15. 

YOU  perceive  at  once  the  great  capital.  The 
English  city  lies  among  the  trees:  broad  avenues, 
elegant  villas,  vast  gardens.  In  the  distance, 
crowded  blocks  of  houses,  minarets,  Hindu  cones, 
rise  on  every  side,  bristling  against  the  sky ;  this  is 
the  native  city. 

One  begins  with  the  public  edifices.  Probably  my 
eye  is  blast;  I  see  nothing  approaching  the  perfec- 
tion of  Agra.  The  fort  has  been  spoiled  by  the 
English  occupation ;  in  many  places  the  valuable 
stones  have  been  dug  out,  and  their  place  supplied 
with  red  or  green  wax.  In  general,  the  plan  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  fort  at  Agra.  Very  high  exte- 
rior walls,  extensive  courts  for  parades  and  shows 
with  elephants,  sumptuous  halls  decorated  with  gold 
scrollwork,  their  walls  incrusted  with  jewelled  birds 
and  flowers,  harems  which  are  exquisite  as  a  dream ; 
all  this  I  have  already  seen  in  Akbar's  capital.  "If 
Paradise  can  be  found  in  the  world,  it  is  here!" 
says  a  Persian  inscription. 

No  doubt  this  fortress,  also,  shelters  a  paradise  of 
idle  delights;  there  is  the  same  abundance  of  mosaic 
work,  of  marble  trellises,  of  sinuous  lotus  stems  and 


1 86  IN  INDIA. 

flowers  in  relief;  there  are  the  mysterious,  shadowy 
bathrooms,  and  the  terraces  without  balustrades 
whence  you  will  see  the  sun  go  down  across  a  reedy 
plain,  all  resembling  Agra.  The  little  mosque  for 
the  women  is  a  jewel  in  marble  that  would  seem  to 
have  been  cut  from  a  single  block;  the  three  domes 
are  like  pearls.  The  whole  thing  should  be  kept  in 
a  jewel-case. 

Better  still,  however,  do  I  like  the  great  mosque, 
the  most  beautiful  in  India,  they  say,  and,  probably, 
in  all  Asia.  Broad  stairs  that,  with  a  single  oblique 
bound,  fall  in  sheets  of  marble ;  above,  a  court 
paved  with  polished  alabaster  all  white,  dazzling, 
which  you  would  say  had  been  made  from  one 
immense  lustrous  stone;  on  three  sides  of  this 
court  a  deep  gallery,  sustained  by  three  rows  of 
pillars;  at  the  right  and  left,  stiff  slender  minarets: 
this  is  the  grand  Muhammadan  style.  An  astonish- 
ing severity  and  simplicity  of  lines:  a  general  effect 
of  something  dominant  and  supreme.  The  towers 
in  their  simplicity  rise  high  above  the  city,  imperi- 
ous as  a  conqueror.  It  was  here  that  the  emperor, 
attended  by  his  nobles  and  his  people,  standing 
upon  the  pavement,  facing  a  white  wall,  used  to 
listen  to  the  harsh  sentences  of  the  Koran,  the 
fierce  and  ardent  law.  Thereafter,  he  would  order 
the  sack  of  a  Hindu  city;  then  build  mosques,  with 
the  materials  of  the  destroyed  pagodas;  then 
glorify  in  his  heart  the  proud  name  of  Allah. 

The  priests  of  Allah  are  not  proud.  The  high- 
priest,  with  silent  gravity,  showed  us  relics  of 
Muhammad,  a  sandal,  a  hair  of  his  beard.  As  I 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  187 

bent  my  head  before  him,  full  of  respect  and  grati- 
tude, suddenly  he  held  out  his  hand.  Cheddy  Lai, 
who  has  charge  of  the  baksheesh,  presented  him  with 
three  annas.  Silent  as  before,  the  high  priest  bowed, 
thanking  us  with  a  dignified  gesture. 

However,  he  keeps  up  appearances.  The  Hindu 
dealers  are  more  demonstrative.  At  the  railway 
station,  twenty  shawl-merchants  worry  the  unlucky 
traveller.  They  accompany  him  to  his  hotel,  run- 
ning beside  the  carriage,  climbing  on  the  step,  cling- 
ing to  the  door,  gesticulating,  assailing  him  with  a 
hail  of  cards,  inundating  him  with  a  never-ending 
flow  of  obsequious  speech.  At  the  hotel,  one  is  not 
rid  of  them.  They  install  themselves  upon  the 
veranda,  they  mount  guard  outside  your  bedroom, 
outside  the  dining-room :  you  come  out,  they  rush 
upon  you ;  it  becomes  a  scuffle,  you  show  your  fists, 
brandish  your  stick  to  get  through.  The  first 
encounters  being  over,  you  suppose  yourself  at 
peace;  take  notice  that  all  the  time  piercing  eyes 
are  on  the  watch  for  you.  At  six  in  the  morning, 
you  awaken.  Instantly,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
great  white  bedroom,  a  door  is  set  ajar  a  few  inches ; 
five  arms  are  pushed  through,  brandishing  stuffs, 
slippers,  caps.  They  saw  you  fall  asleep ;  they  saw 
you  wake.  Some  conceal  themselves,  following  you 
in  the  street  on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  waiting  till 
you  are  tired,  alone,  unprotected ;  and  seize  the 
opportune  moment  to  present  themselves. 

A  few  minutes  ago,  sauntering  in  the  great  bazaar, 
I  accompanied  Cheddy  to  a  shawl-dealer's,  who  this 
morning  very  nearly  got  himself  crushed  by  my 


1 88  IN  INDIA. 

garry  in  his  endeavor  to  obtain  the  promise  of  a 
visit.  We  find  a  fat  man,  of  gentle  face,  seated 
upon  cushions,  drinking  coffee  with  some  friends. 
Upon  our  entrance  he  springs  to  his  feet,  he  runs 
back  and  forth,  he  whirls  about  me,  he  envelops  me 
in  his  gesticulations.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
before  I  know  how  he  has  done  it,  we  have  each  had 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and  are  seated  before  a  bale  which 
he  unrolls  with  the  agility  of  a  monkey;  out  of  it 
emerge,  as  if  by  magic,  rare  silks,  embroideries  in 
gold,  which  he  holds  up  in  the  light,  with  which  he 
drapes  himself,  with  which  he  drapes  me,  with  all 
sorts  of  feminine  airs  and  graces.  "I  want  you,  sir, 
to  see  this  beautiful  thing.  What  do  you  think  of 
it?  Is  it  not  beautiful?  Put  it  aside.  You  look  at 
me.  Don't  you  think  it  will  do  for  the  young  lady 
at  home?"  The  abrupt  English,  the  colorless  accent 
are  something  amazing;  but  the  short  sentences 
accumulate  with  deafening  ardor.  In  three  minutes 
it  appears  that  I  have  made  my  selection :  a  shawl, 
a  little  rug;  only  a  hundred  and  fifty  rupees.  I 
know  Hindu  dealers,  and  I  have  sense  enough  left 
to  offer  half.  Almost  before  I  have  mentioned  the 
sum  my  man  cries:  "Let's  toss  up!"  That  is  to  say, 
the  price  shall  be  a  hundred  and  fifty  rupees  if  the 
coin  falls  head  up ;  seventy-five,  if  tails.  I  refuse. 
At  once  the  things  are  mine,  and  the  transaction  is 
so  promptly  made  that  it  is  clear  the  Hindu  is  not 
the  loser. 

Now,  satisfied,  he  becomes  calm;  and,  in  another 
tone  of  voice,  enters  upon  a  new  subject.  It  appears 
that  this  evening,  at  the  hotel,  I  am  to  have  the 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  189 

honor  of  meeting  a  duchess.  All  the  shawl-dealers 
have  been  on  the  alert  since  her  arrival ;  and  each 
one,  watching  her,  keeps  watch  upon  his  rivals  as 
well.  My  man  begs  that  I  will  speak  of  him  at  the 
table  d'hote.  "Give  and  take,"  he  says;  and  to  per- 
suade me,  offers  as  a  present  a  cap  whose  silver  he 
exhibits  in  the  light.  Treating  me  as  a  friend,  he 
confides  the  fact  that  he  has  a  stock  of  shawls  worth 
three  lacs  of  rupees,  showing  me  also  diplomas  from 
English  Expositions. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  these  Orientals  do  not  know 
the  feeling  of  shame.  It  appears  that  honor  and 
conscience  are  products  of  the  West,  which  cannot 
be  elaborated  here.  All  beg  for  baksheesh  with 
clasped  hands;  and  in  the  most  serious  and  the 
richest  of  them,  you  may  find  a  beggar  and  a  thief. 

DECEMBER  16. 

Taking  a  carriage,  I  go  to  visit  the  Kutab-Minar, 
the  great  tower  which  is  ten  miles  distant  from 
Delhi. 

Our  road  is  an  Asiatic  Appian  Way.  Ruins  from 
every  century,  left  by  three  races  and  three  religions, 
strew  a  great,  melancholy  plain.  Fragments  of 
ancient  Hindu  Delhi,  of  Afghan  Delhi,  of  Mongol 
Delhi,  cover  a  dead  extent  of  seventy  miles  square. 
Slowly,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  the  city  has 
changed  its  site,  as  a  river  changes  its  bed.  As  far 
as  the  eye  can  see,  among  the  withered  brushwood, 
rise  ruinous  domes  and  broken  columns.  These 
yellowish  heaps  are  the  remains  of  Indra-Partha,  the 
city  of  Indra,  for  which  the  five  brothers  of  Maha- 


19°  IN  INDIA. 

barata  fought,  three  thousand  years  ago !  Further 
on  a  granite  pier,  covered  with  faded  characters, 
proclaims  the  edicts  of  the  Buddhist  king  Asoka. 
Everywhere,  like  tombs  in  a  cemetery,  are  heaped 
the  fragments  of  Mongol  art,  monumental  mausolea, 
domes  surrounded  with  kiosks,  all  discolored  by 
time,  brought  to  a  uniform  tint  with  the  sad  and 
withered  vegetation,  all  taken  back  by  nature.  A 
few  tombs  are  as  imposing  as  Akbar's  at  Secundra, 
and  rise  solitary  amid  the  arid  steppe.  The  blue 
peacocks  wandering  about  them  are  the  only  liv- 
ing things  that  haunt  the  spot.  Generations  have 
swarmed  here,  and  of  their  dead  life  there  remains 
this  imperceptible  residue;  as  it  takes  centuries  of 
forest  growth  to  make  a  thin  stratum  of  coal.  The 
Vedic  age,  the  Brahmanic  age,  the  Buddhist  age, 
the  first  Musalman  dynasties,  the  Mongol  epoch — 
each  historic  period  has  left,  so  to  speak,  its  small 
deposit. 

This  is  the  history  of  the  Kutab:  four  ancient 
Hindu  forts,  still  quite  recognizable,  once  inclosed 
a  great  city  with  its  Buddhist  temples,  where  monks 
in  yellow  robes  with  shaven  heads  went  peacefully 
to  and  fro ;  of  this  period  there  remains  a  huge  iron 
post,  having  on  it  Sanskrit  inscriptions.  About  the 
year  1000,  over  the  Himalayan  wall  came  the  first 
Musalman  hordes.  The  city  was  razed,  and  from 
the  stone  of  its  great  temple  was  built  a  mosque, 
whose  ruins  lie  around  us.*  Here  is  a  triple  colon- 
nade in  which  have  been  recognized  the  old  Bud- 
dhist piers  and  the  patient,  complicated,  confused 

*  About  1193. 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  191 

labor  of  the  poor  Hindu  workman.  These  stones 
are  very  deeply  cut,  and  are  loaded  with  chasing, 
half  effaced  by  time.  Here  and  there  symbolic  fig- 
ures have  been  mutilated  by  the  higher  morality  of 
the  conquering  race.  By  degrees  you  accustom 
yourself  to  read  what  the  blurred  stone  has  to  say, 
the  lines  grow  clearer.  You  can  discern  processions 
of  gods  surrounded  by  guards  and  worshippers; 
then  animals,  tigers,  monkeys,  and  elephants,  which 
very  early  seem  to  have  greatly  attracted  the 
Hindu  mind.  These  thousands  of  blocks  of  stone, 
once  forming  irregular  chapels  and  grooved  roofs, 
the  Musalmans  employed  in  colonnades,  rectangular 
galleries,  simple  geometric  rows.  Upon  the  great 
bare  walls,  cabalistic  figures,  letters  like  birds'  tracks, 
thundered  against  the  blasphemer.  Above  it  all, 
dominating  the  immense  cemetery  of  the  plain, 
inviolate  by  time,  the  Kutab  sends  up,  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  high,  its  shaft  of  red  stone  and 
white  marble.  Up  there,  six  centuries  ago,  when 
yonder  sun  sank  behind  that  horizon,  the  sharp  cry 
of  the  muezzin  was  wont  to  break  the  silence  of  the 
great  plains. 

JAIPUR,  DECEMBER  17. 

At  eight  in  the  morning  I  take  the  Rajputana 
express;  a  curious  phrase  that,  and  significant  of 
many  things!  The  exteriors  of  this  civilization  of 
English  India  are  very  brilliant.  Except  at  Benares, 
where  you  see  exactly  the  same  spectacles  that  were 
to  be  seen  two  thousand  years  ago,  in  all  the  cities 
that  I  have  visited  so  far,  in  Calcutta,  Lucknow, 
Cawnpur,  Agra,  the  beauty  and  neatness  of  the  ave- 


I92  IN  INDIA. 

nues,  the  wealth  of  the  villas,  the  luxury  of  private 
and  public  gardens,  the  comfort  and  number  of 
hotels,  the  multitude  of  carriages,  the  grand  scale  of 
the  railway  stations,  would  do  honor  to  a  great  Euro- 
pean city.  The  question  remains  to  what  depth 
this  English  life  has  penetrated  the  Hindu  world. 

All  around  is  the  same  vast  plain,  where  slender 
grasses  grow  feebly  in  the  sand.  This  is  the  limit 
of  the  vegetable  world.  A  few  leagues  westward 
the  desert,  the  gloomy,  yellow  waste,  begins. 

And  now,  the  sharp  and  simple  outlines  of  sandy 
mountains  rise  here  and  there  from  the  level  of  the 
plain  like  precipitous  islets  emerging  from  the  sea. 
There  are  no  spurs,  no  preliminary  undulations  of 
the  ground.  I  observed  in  the  Red  Sea  a  similar 
effect;  the  promontory  of  Sinai,  emerging  on  the 
edge  of  the  blue  horizon  designed  in  the  arid  air  an 
outline  no  less  clear  and  hard.  From  time  to  time, 
long  lines  of  camels  announced  that  the  nomad 
world,  the  world  of  the  tent,  was  near. 

About  two  o'clock,  at  Ulwar,  the  aspect  of  the 
country  becomes  more  fresh  and  animated.  Great 
gray  monkeys  are  playing  in  the  grass.  Near  the 
station  are  the  eternal  blue  peacocks,  which  seem  to 
people  all  the  Northwest  of  India.  While  the  train 
stops,  I  observe  a  group  of  women  leaning  against 
a  gate.  The  youngest,  wrapped  in  a  red  garment, 
has  the  beautiful  oval  face  and  the  colorless  com- 
plexion of  a  Florentine  of  the  Renaissance.  The 
features  are  of  classic  regularity,  with  that  inexpres- 
sible gravity  and  dignity  we  meet  so  often  here 
among  low-caste  women.  There  is  nothing  savage 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  193 

or  inferior  in  these  types,  of  the  purest  Aryan  stamp. 
This  one  stood  motionless,  so  calm,  so  serious,  her 
great  sombre  eyes  full  of  concentrated  passion. 

Two  British  soldiers,  of  the  Scots  Greys,  came 
into  my  compartment.  The  fine  types  of  race! 
Each  man  as  tall  and  stout  as  two  Hindus;  solid, 
well  set-up,  buttoned  tight  in  their  gray  jackets. 
Nor  are  they  simply  fine,  healthy  animals.  This 
flesh  is  all  muscle,  hardened  by  training.  Their 
faces,  under  the  Scotch  caps,  are  full  of  frankness 
and  honesty.  Features  strong,  well  cut,  expressive, 
complexions  clear,  gestures  to  the  point,  and  made 
quietly.  Their  moral  and  physical  training  has 
given  them  a  certain  repose  of  manner,  a  certain 
dignity,  a  stamp  of  "the  gentleman."  During  the 
eight  hours'  journey  from  Ulmar  to  Jaipur  they 
remained  silent  and  impassive,  speaking  once  only, 
to  refuse  a  glass  of  wine!  Evidently  they  are 
"teetotalers." 

I  was  looking  over  a  book  by  a  Bengali  on  the 
English  establishment  in  India,  and  from  time  to 
time  my  eyes  left  the  book  to  observe  the  two 
Scots;  they  aided  me  in  understanding  it.  In  that 
peculiar  mental  condition,  stimulated  and  yet  slightly 
confused,  which  is  caused  by  sleeplessness  and  con- 
tinuous, rapid  motion  on  the  railway;  in  that  half 
fever  which  accelerates  at  the  same  time  that  it 
blurs  the  associations  of  ideas,  their  faces  interested 
me  strangely.  I  seemed  to  see,  in  these  soldiers 
that  chance  had  thus  thrown  in  my  way,  not  indi- 
vidual personalities,  but  the  type  itself  of  the  race 
now  mistress  in  the  peninsula — the  pure,  complete, 


194  fJV  INDIA. 

developed  type ;  and  their  faces  were  to  me  as  a  liv- 
ing expression  of  the  British  soul.  I  could  read  in 
them  the  calm,  decided  will,  the  tenacity,  the  habit 
of  self-control,  the  enthusiastic  pride  underlying  the 
other  qualities,  and  the  practical  aptitudes  which, 
in  England,  have  doubled  the  active  force  of  the 
human  being  and  his  grasp  upon  realities. 

And  with  this,  whiffs  of  England  came  into  my 
head ;  separate,  simple  images  coming,  one  by  one : 
a  November  evening,  in  a  little  chapel  on  the 
Devonshire  coast ;  outside,  the  black  water,  splash- 
ing in  the  darkness ;  here,  the  whole  village  crowded 
into  a  hall  of  bare  pine  boards,  all  heads  turned 
toward  a  man  of  the  village  who  is  preaching;  hard 
faces,  ploughed  with  wrinkles ;  rows  of  old  fisher- 
men clasping  their  Bibles  with  gaunt,  trembling 
hands:  then,  the  yellow  atmosphere  of  the  city,  at 
the  hour  when  the  streets  are  black  with  the  crowd : 
again,  young  men  in  white  flannel  throwing  balls  in 
grayish  fields:  long  lines  of  great  misty  vessels  on 
a  dull-colored  river,  whose  leaden  mirror  gleams 
dolefully  through  a  fog:  brick  cities,  drowned  in  a 
sluggish  smoke  rising  from  ten  thousand  factory 
chimneys. 

Then  these  confused  images  blend  and  disappear; 
and,  without  transition,  as  if  one  turned  the  mental 
stereoscope,  in  a  rosy  light,  a  great  muddy  river 
appears;  the  divine  Ganges  is  flowing  past  its  two 
thousand  pagodas,  at  Benares,  and  on  its  banks 
the  inert  crowd  of  Brahmans,  sitting  on  their 
heels. 

The    Thames    below    London,    the     Ganges    at 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  195 

Benares — in  the  presence  of  this  contrast  one 
measures  the  abyss  separating  the  two  races  which 
here  we  see  placed  together.  In  the  depths  of  the 
English  soul,  as  great  Englishmen  have  made  it 
visible  to  us — Cromwell  or  Milton,  Wordsworth  or 
Carlyle — and  as  we  see  it  still  more  clearly  in  their 
works  of  art,  where  the  type,  pure  and  clear,  is 
thrown  into  stronger  relief  than  in  the  real  world,  in 
Robinson  Crusoe  or  in  Tom  Tulliver,  one  perceives 
a  strong  and  almost  changeless  personality;  a  stead- 
fast will,  supported  by  a  few  permanent  and  power- 
ful sentiments,  a  solid  axis,  on  which  everything 
rests.  They  all  conceive  life  as  a  series  of  prescribed 
acts,  whose  aim  is  to  ameliorate  the  condition,  to 
augment  the  well-being,  and  to  perfect  the  moral 
nature.  This  ideal,  with  an  admirable  enthusiasm, 
and  with  a  narrowness  of  mind  which  seems  the 
penalty  of  her  active  virtues,  England  sets  before 
India;  multiplying  schools  for  boys  and  girls, 
colleges,  and  universities;  and  ruining  herself  with 
missionaries.  It  is  said  that  the  results  are  meagre 
and  that  English  culture  produces  only  miserable 
failures:  Chunder  Dutt,  the  Bengali  whom  I  have 
just  now  been  reading,  is  a  specimen  of  the  con- 
verted babu ;  he  imagines  no  other  model  than  the 
English.  Hence,  he  demands  the  complete  applica- 
tion of  the  English  moral  code;  he  denounces  femi- 
nine dress  and  the  promiscuous  dip  in  the  sacred 
rivers.  Here  is  the  idea  of  this  Bengali,  who  aspires 
to  be  the  English  clergyman :  to  have  the  sacred 
shore  of  the  ancient  river  divided  by  barriers  and 
placards,  "Ladies  on  one  side,  gentlemen  on  the 


I96  IN  INDIA. 

other."  But  this  invention  denotes  a  lack  of  culture 
and  the  critical  faculty.  Chunder  Dutt,  who  has 
read  Macaulay,  has  not  read  Renan.  However,  this 
scandal  is  not  about  to  cease.  The  success  of  the 
missionaries  in  India  is  really  very  small.  It  has 
been  estimated  that  every  Hindu  conversion  costs 
England  a  thousand  pounds  sterling;  and  however 
sincere  the  convert  may  be,  and  however  hard  he 
may  strive  to  make  himself  as  an  Englishman,  it  is 
certain  that  all  he  can  do  is  only  to  assume  a  dis- 
guise. For  the  intellectual  and  moral  habits  of 
a  people,  like  the  organs  of  a  plant,  are  conditioned 
upon  a  certain  combination  of  circumstances  which 
is  infinitely  complex,  and  in  which  the  principal  ele- 
ment is  the  entire  series  of  its  antecedents.  All 
their  past  has  made  them  what  they  are. 

Ah !  ancient  ascetics,  profound  dreamers,  who 
sought,  twenty  centuries  ago,  to  tear  away  the  rain- 
bow-hued  veil  which  illusion  weaves  over  the  dark 
reality ;  who  renounced  all  personal  desire,  to  shelter 
yourselves  in  indifference  and  immobility;  with 
what  a  smile  of  disdainful  pity  would  you  regard 
that  Western  race  which  now  rules  in  your  land ! 
They  do  not  believe  that  the  world  is  a  dream,  these 
newcomers.  They  have  not  ceased  from  saying:  "I 
am."  They  rejoice  in  their  strength,  and  their  will 
obtains  its  gratification.  They  act,  they  build  upon 
this  world  which  they  believe  of  rock,  and  you  be- 
lieve is  shifting  sand.  What  would  you  say  of  their 
haste  and  fever?  What  would  you  say  of  these 
ships  loaded  with  this  world's  goods;  of  these  trains 
which  devour  the  distance,  as  if  it  were  of  any  con- 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  197 

sequence  to  change  one's  place,  to  go  any  whither? 
But  above  all,  what  would  you  say  of  this  meagre 
English  philosophy,  which  vegetates  in  yonder  land 
of  fogs  where  there  is  no  luxuriance  of  nature ;  and 
of  this  theistic  heresy,  which  they  propose  to  natu- 
ralize in  the  home  of  broad  speculation?  This,  at 
least,  is  certain  :  you  would  make  no  attempt  to 
enlighten  them,  blinded  by  Maya.  You  would 
leave  them  to  their  ignorant  goings  to  and  fro,  to 
their  pride ;  and,  slowly  closing  your  eyes,  you 
would  return  with  delight  to  your  solitary  dream,  to 
your  tranquillizing  contemplation  of  the  eternal  and 
motionless ! 

It  is  certain  that  the  English  stratum  is  greatly  in 
evidence  in  India,  even  in  the  states  which  are  inde- 
pendent. There  is  always  an  "English  Church," 
severe  and  unadorned,  like  those  which  keep  guard 
over  the  country  in  England.  At  the  spacious  rail- 
way stations,  colonists  in  shooting  jackets  are  read- 
ing eight-paged  "papers."  Placards  announce  "a 
match  between  the  cricketers  of  Lucknow  and  the 
champions  of  Allahabad";  or  races  at  Ahmedabad 
and  Baroda.  Other  placards  advertise  a  machine 
which  turns  out  ten  thousand  bottles  of  soda  water 
daily.  The  romances  of  Ouida  and  of  Walter 
Besant  lie  on  a  counter. 

Meantime  women,  clad  as  were  the  Hindu  con- 
temporaries of  Homer,  their  ankles,  ears,  and  noses 
adorned  with  rings,  carry  stoneware  jars.  Warriors 
go  by,  bristling  with  sabres,  loaded  with  bucklers; 
and  we  are  upon  the  territory  of  a  prince  who,  at 
Bindrabund,  is  erecting  a  pagoda  to  Krishna. 


l$o  IN  INDIA. 

DECEMBER  18. 

At  Calcutta,  English  India;  at  Benares,  the  India 
of  the  Brahmans;  at  Agra,  the  India  of  the  Grand 
Moguls;  here,  the  India  of  the  rajahs,  the  India 
of  novels  and  the  opera — fairy-like  and  incredible. 
The  Rapjutana  is  a  very  ancient  Hindu  kingdom, 
resembling  those  which  covered  the  peninsula  before 
the  Musalman  establishments  in  the  early  centuries 
of  our  era.  It  has  never  been  conquered.  Against 
the  diverse  races  who  have  ruled  in  India,  the 
Rajputs  have  maintained  their  independence. 
They  are  still  the  Aryan  people  that  they  were  in 
the  fabulous  time  of  the  Ramayana.  Across  a  hun- 
dred and  thirty-nine  generations,  the  rajah  claims 
descent  from  the  sun,  who  was  father  of  the  great 
Rama;  and  he  still  governs  according  to  the  law  of 
Manu,  as  did  the  Hindu  kings,  his  ancestors,  who 
lived  before  Caesar.  The  nobles  are  of  a  race  equally 
good,  like  himself  descendants  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
and  the  early  history  of  the  great  Rajput  families  is 
lost  in  the  night  of  time.  The  population,  organized, 
as  in  the  primitive  days,  in  clans,  in  tribes,  is  of  noble 
race,  of  white  race.  Every  Rajput  is  by  birth  a 
Kshatriya,  belonging  to  that  caste  of  Aryan  warriors 
who  recognize  no  superiors  but  the  Brahmans. 
Hence  a  man  of  the  country  esteems  himself  the 
equal  of  his  princes.  He  is  called  "the  king's  son." 
His  character  is  proud,  manly,  honorable ;  he  has  a 
horse,  a  lance,  and  a  shield ;  in  battle  he  follows  the 
chief  of  his  clan,  and  loyally  stands  by  his  father, 
the  king,  in  defence  of  the  gods  and  the  country. 
Even  from  the  hotel,  outside  the  city,  you 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  199 

recognize  a  very  original  world.  Low,  yellowish 
hills,  all  crowned  with  strongholds  and  crenellated 
towers,  encircle  the  horizon.  A  mediaeval  stage- 
scene  was  not  a  thing  to  be  expected  in  the  tropics. 
Along  the  road,  through  the  crowd  of  little  donkeys, 
past  troops  of  women  who  sing  as  they  walk,  horse- 
men, mounted  on  fine  Arab  steeds,  a  round  buckler 
at  the  belt,  a  sabre  at  the  side,  coiffed  with  red  tur- 
bans, their  great  beards  parted  in  the  middle  and 
spreading  out,  flattened  and  bristling,  at  the  right 
and  left,  prance  with  an  air  of  the  most  audacious 
courage.  Nothing  of  that  gentle,  indolent,  dreamy 
expression  which  I  have  so  often  seen  in  India. 
This  is  a  very  active  world :  people  on  foot,  horse- 
men, camels,  elephants,  heavy  carts,  small  donkeys, 
crowd  the  roads,  and  all  this  crowd  is  noisy,  and 
glittering  in  the  dust  and  sunshine. 

After  half  an  hour  on  the  way,  we  arrive  at  the 
postern  of  the  fortified  wall  surrounding  the  city. 
I  pass  under  high  bastions,  cross  a  drawbridge,  then 
a  little  inner  courtyard,  where  kneeling  camels  are 
waiting  to  be  unloaded,  and  of  a  sudden,  I  emerge 
into  the  scenery  of  an  opera,  misty,  light,  fantastic, 
charming,  indescribable. 

The  first  thing  you  are  conscious  of  is  the  pink 
color  of  the  picture.  Let  the  reader  supply  this 
color  as  I  attempt  to  describe  what  I  beheld.  Let 
him  imagine  a  street  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
wide,  and  two  miles  long,  bordered  with  pink 
houses,  pink  temples,  pink  palaces,  pink  bell-towers, 
and  pavilions,  the  pink  a  most  delicate  rose-color, 
and  this  street  so  straight  that  to  its  very  end  you 


200  IN  INDIA. 

see  the  houses,  shops,  fagades,  in  perfect  alignment 
succeeding  each  other,  growing  indistinct  in  the  dis- 
tance, vanishing  in  a  mist  of  this  same  extraordinary 
pink.  There  is  not  a  spot  of  dark  color  anywhere, 
not  a  European  carriage,  nothing  but  the  multi- 
colored twinkling  of  the  crowd.  On  the  sidewalks 
to  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  you  can  see,  it  is  a 
bazaar  in  the  open  air,  a  row  of  dealers  seated  on  the 
ground,  and,  upon  blue  and  red  rugs  which  are 
spread  out  upon  the  pavement,  a  great  display  of 
shining  objects — slippers  embroidered  with  silver, 
piles  of  oranges  and  bananas,  painted  images,  stuffs 
splashed  with  sunshine.  To  right  and  left  all  is 
graceful  and  luminous;  one  could  spend  a  day  walk- 
ing through  the  streets,  and  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  retain  an  exact  memory  of  each  detail.  The  eye 
cannot  be  satisfied  with  seeing.  Vainly  I  cry  to  my 
coachman:  Hasta!  hasta  (Slowly !  slowly!)  we  still 
go  too  fast ;  and  to  his  great  disgust,  I  leave  the 
carriage,  that  I  may  saunter  at  will. 

Rajput  nobles  and  functionaries,  adorned  as  for  a 
play,  clothed  in  embroidery,  loaded  with  feathers 
and  jewels,  their  imposing  beards  skilfully  spread 
out  fanwise;  handsome,  well-groomed  horses;  ro- 
mantic soldiers,  with  shield  and  sword ;  students, 
guards,  women  of  the  people,  sometimes  carrying  a 
naked  baby  astride  on  the  hip :  all  go  by  in  a  light 
mist  which  is  the  evaporation  of  the  heavy  dew. 

From  the  edge  of  their  stalls,  the  little  dealers 
stretch  out  their  arms  to  me,  offering,  with  a  pretty 
smile,  marble  statuettes,  pictures  of  gods  hastily 
daubed,  yet  not  without  spirit  and  expression.  The 


DELHI,    JAIPUR.  201 

walls  are  all  tattooed  with  designs  in  blue:  ele- 
phants, leopards,  trees,  locomotives,  Europeans 
very  stiff,  buttoned  tight  in  ridiculous  frock-coats. 
There  are  grown  men  flying  kites  and  running  about 
the  streets,  like  schoolboys.  And  all  this  whimsical 
people,  laughing  and  playing,  this  boyish,  artistic 
people,  seem  created  by  a  poet's  comic  caprice,  in  a 
dream  world  where  all  must  be  light,  droll,  gay,  airy, 
and  none  of  the  sad  and  hateful  realities  of  life 
should  remain. 

In  this  world  men  live  like  brothers  with  the  ani- 
mals, those  good  souls  that  are  more  simple  and  more 
tranquil  than  we.  See  the  strings  of  little  donkeys 
with  their  little  trot,  the  gentle  camels  of  slow  and 
undulating  gait,  lifting  their  long  womanish  necks 
above  the  crowd ;  the  flocks  of  gray  monkeys  upon 
the  roofs;  the  peaceful  cows  with  great  greenish 
horns,  themselves  white,  statuesque,  as  if  carved  in 
marble.  There  are  small  dogs,  colored  yellow,  blue, 
or  pink.  Further,  in  a  large  open  square,  a  crowded 
population  of  pigeons,  lighting  by  myriads,  cover 
the  ground  with  a  dense,  undulating,  bluish  floor, 
which  opens  as  the  heavy  bulk  of  an  elephant, 
caparisoned  with  red,  passes  through.  Among  all 
these  living  animals,  here  and  there  are  altars  for 
their  Avorship ;  tiny  tabernacles  filled  with  little 
bulls,  little  elephants,  little  monkeys.  This  square 
is  at  the  intersection  of  two  streets,  which  meet  at 
right  angles,  the  other  street  just  as  broad,  as 
straight,  as  pink  as  the  one  we  have  followed. 
Here,  at  the  foot  of  temples  guarded  by  elephants 
in  stone,  there  is  a  great  confusion  of  passers-by,  of 


202  IN  INDIA. 

flowers,  of  donkeys,  camels,  horsemen,  and  dealers. 
Among  the  crowd  of  pigeons  picking  up  their  food, 
there  are  a  hundred  cows  peacefully  reposing,  in- 
different to  all  the  stir  around  them  ;  boys,  standing, 
hold  up  tall  branches  that  fill  the  space  with  ver- 
dure :  these  the  worshippers  buy,  and  lay  them  be- 
fore the  cows,  who  accept  this  homage  as  their  due, 
and  munch  serenely.  From  the  tops  of  trees  hang 
earthen  vases  green  with  moss,  on  which  alight 
flocks  of  parrots,  their  pretty  round  heads  ringed 
with  red. 

Suddenly,  a  prancing  of  horses.  What  is  this 
proud  cavalcade  which  comes  into  the  square?  The 
fine  animals  with  their  lustrous  coats,  the  handsome 
cavaliers  with  glittering  weapons!  This  is  the 
brother  of  the  rajah,  followed  by  his  barons,  pre- 
ceded by  his  men-at-arms,  who  run  on  foot,  carrying 
halberds.  A  velvet  cap  over  one  ear,  in  a  green 
embroidered  tunic,  the  prince  manages  his  capering 
horse.  For  an  instant  I  see  him,  a  bold  and  noble 
face,  which  shows  the  grand  ancestry,  the  good 
blood,  the  instinct  of  command.  He  is  a  true 
Kshatriya,  lineal  descendant  of  the  first  conquerors 
of  India. 

Meanwhile,  the  elephants  come  back  to  their 
stable.  Here  are  seven,  rugged  and  sombre  colossi, 
taciturn  philosophers,  full  of  slowness,  superior  to 
all  the  beings  who  are  scurrying  about  them.  One 
by  one  they  disappear  under  a  porch,  brushing  the 
ground  with  their  trunks,  each  with  three  cornacs 
on  his  massive  head,  with  its  huge  flapping  ears. 
Bending  the  knee,  as  with  a  human  gait,  gently 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  203 

setting  down  their  big,  soft  feet,  they  pass,  silent  as 
shadows.  What  profound  thought  in  those  sad, 
heavy  heads,  and  how  they  ignore  this  inferior 
population  of  men  and  beasts  who  scatter  before 
them !  It  is  comprehensible,  as  you  see  them,  that 
Ganesa,  the  wise  god,  should  have  an  elephant's 
head. 

At  every  instant  the  pictures  change;  I  try  to 
note  this  one  as  it  flies:  before  a  lofty  door  of  the 
palace,  into  which  disappear  pachyderms,  camels, 
a  whole  city  full  of  men,  the  air  is  thick  with  falcons. 
They  whirl  and  scream  before  the  red  image  of  the 
elephant  god,  which  sleeps  in  a  niche  over  the  porch ; 
and  shrill  trumpets  make  a  Hindu  music. 

All  around  the  square  are  temples,  monuments, 
university,  palaces;  one,  among  the  rest,  of  a  singu- 
larly vivid  rose-color,  rising  in  the  form  of  a  pyra- 
mid, bristles  with  a  nine-storied  fa£ade,  composed 
of  a  hundred  bell-turrets,  and  sixty-four  projecting 
windows,  adorned  with  colonnettes  and  balconies, 
pierced  in  open-work  with  countless  flowers  cut  out 
in  the  stone;  a  vaporous,  airy,  impossible  construc- 
tion. This  is  the  palace  of  the  Wind — the  palace  of 
the  Wind?  How  enchanting  the  name!  There  is, 
also,  on  a  beautiful  little  hill  outside  the  city,  the 
palace  of  the  Clouds ;  and  on  another  hill  the  temple 
of  the  Sun.  The  rose-colored  gate  at  the  other  end 
of  Jaipur  is  called  the  gate  of  Rubies.  This  is  clearly 
the  city  of  a  fairy  tale.  A  trumpet-call!  A  brazen 
voice  which  makes  one  look  around.  Running  very 
rapidly,  comes  a  merry  funeral  train ;  comes  the 
corpse  closely  wrapped  in  white  gauze ;  come  the 


204  IN  INDIA. 

bearers  who  carry  it,  slung  from  bamboos;  comes 
the  family,  leaping,  clashing  cymbals,  screaming  out 
the  sacred  syllable:  "Ram!  Ram!"  They  have  all 
gone  by,  disappeared,  the  noisy  troop !  Now  there 
are  greyhounds  in  a  leash,  with  crimson  blankets, 
from  the  royal  gardens  where,  on  camp-beds,  lie 
asleep  the  hunting  leopards  and  lynxes  of  his  High- 
ness. Strange,  lean,  supple  creatures,  these  grey- 
hounds; very  noble,  with  a  keen  light  in  their  pierc- 
ing eyes,  as,  with  rough  tongue,  they  lick  the  hand 
their  attendant  holds  out  to  them.  Not  far  dis- 
tant I  see  a  wedding  party;  fifty  women,  clothed 
in  silky  yellow,  seated  on  the  ground,  are  chanting, 
and  the  bride,  a  slip  of  a  girl,  ten  years  old,  stands 
alone  in  the  centre.  At  the  end  of  the  street,  be- 
hind a  grating,  which  makes  a  facade  upon  the  side- 
walk, in  the  presence  of  the  passing  crowd,  ten  man- 
eaters,  ten  royal  tigers,  with  lowered  heads,  measure 
with  long,  gentle  steps  the  cage  to  which,  after  due 
form  of  law,  they  have  been  sentenced.  They  well 
deserve  their  title  of  sahibs,  "lords,"  these  beasts. 
The  greatest  beauty  of  them  all  is  the  assassin  of 
sixteen  women.  I  have  the  same  feeling  at  sight  of 
the  formidable,  gloomy  head,  the  sinuous,  gliding 
back,  the  suppleness  of  the  thick  muscles,  the  pos- 
sible snap  of  the  terrible  jaws,  the  tawny  splendor 
of  the  coat  made  of  living  light,  that  I  had  in  Ceylon, 
before  the  sheaf  of  bamboos  springing  up  into  the 
flaming  sky. 

Among  this  multitude  of  images  crowding  one 
upon  another,  a  sight  which  is  incessantly  repeated 
never  loses  its  charm.  You  are  never  tired  of  admir- 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  205 

ing  the  suppleness  and  freshness  of  nude  youthful 
figures.  The  slender,  curving  torsos  of  the  children, 
both  boys  and  girls,  are  adorable.  The  long  black 
tresses  fall  over  the  pretty,  wild,  timid  face,  and  over 
the  delicately  modelled  chest.  You  are  conscious 
of  the  strength  and  health  of  the  young  muscles  and 
the  pure  blood.  It  is  something  perfect.  The  light 
and  shade  are  harmoniously  blent  upon  the  smooth 
bronze  of  the  skin,  all  enveloped  in  sunshine  and 
atmosphere.  The  young  women,  half  nude,  know 
how  to  adjust  their  drapery  with  extreme  grace. 
There  is  nothing  more  delightful  to  the  eye,  more 
simple  and  tranquil,  than  these  folds  of  soft  stuff. 
In  the  little  girls,  who  are  extremely  slender,  you 
can  see  the  peaceful  undulation  of  the  interior  frame- 
work. They  also,  even  the  very  youngest,  carry 
upon  the  head  handsome  round  jars,  which  they 
hold  with  stretched  arms,  lifted  as  high  as  possible, 
the  chest  dilated  with  the  effort,  and  the  bronze  skin 
all  lustrous  in  the  sunlight. 

I  enter  a  temple  whose  broad  steps  descend 
into  the  square.  Below,  kneeling  camels  are  asleep 
and  dogs  lie  upon  the  steps,  stretched  out  in  the 
sun.  I  ascend  and  enter  a  court,  where  cows 
wander  freely  over  the  marble  pavement.  In  a 
corner  are  the  two  sacred  trees,  the  male  and  female 
banian,  the  latter  called  i\\e  pipala.  An  old  woman 
is  running  rapidly  around  the  first  one,  and  another 
woman  is  pouring  a  little  water  upon  the  leaves  of 
the  second.  On  one  side,  a  second  courtyard  has 
a  gallery  supported  by  columns.  There,  in  the 
shadow,  a  red  group  of  seated  women  listen  quietly 


206  IN  INDIA. 

to  the  nasal  chant  of  a  priest  reading  the  Ramdyana. 
The  pretty,  regular  faces,  seen  under  their  wraps, 
scarcely  look  absorbed  in  meditation.  Every 
creature  is  perfectly  at  home  in  the  temple:  the 
priest  seated  on  his  heels,  garlanded  with  flowers, 
swings  his  body  to  and  fro  to  the  rhythm  of  what 
he  reads.  Quantities  of  sparrows  are  pecking  here 
and  there,  and  large  crows  hop  awkwardly  upon  the 
backs  of  the  drowsy  cows.  Strictly  characteristic 
of  Hinduism  is  this  worship  in  the  open  air,  this 
sacred  place  which  is  at  once  a  cow-house,  an 
aviary,  and  a  temple.  An  intense  light  strikes  upon 
the  walls,  on  which  are  rudely  set  forth  in  blue 
paint  the  adventures  of  five  hundred  gods.  Behind 
the  priest,  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  is  a  dark  taber- 
nacle wherein  the  idol  is  visible,  a  small,  black-faced 
doll,  Paravati,  attired  in  red  and  guarded  by  two 
lions.  Beneath,  her  husband,  the  formidable  Siva, 
is  represented  only  by  his  emblematic  stone.  Here 
childless  women  come  to  pray,  and  young  girls  who 
desire  to  be  married. 

Opposite  the  temple,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
great  square  with  its  seething  crowd  of  men  and 
beasts,  stands  the  maharajah's  college.  I  was  admir- 
ing its  facade,  eccentric  and  rose-colored  like  that  of 
the  palace  of  the  Wind,  when  a  student  invited  me 
to  enter.  I  was  introduced  to  the  principal,  whom 
I  found  seated  in  a  little  dark  cabinet  surrounded 
by  books.  A  Hindu  face — very  gentle,  refined,  a 
little  anxious-looking — the  air  of  a  student,  thin, 
stooping,  clad  in  a  long  black  tunic.  With  quiet 
gestures,  and  in  a  few  words  of  perfect  English,  he 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  207 

made  me  welcome,  and  conducted  me  to  the  class- 
rooms. The  higher  examinations  being  near,  the 
students  who  were  preparing  for  them  had  remained 
at  home,  and  we  saw  only  the  pupils  of  the  first  and 
second  year.  In  great  pillared  halls,  little  groups 
of  these  boys  were  gathered  around  their  instructors. 
There  were  neither  chairs,  nor  benches,  nor  desks. 
All  rose  at  our  entrance,  and  bowed  low,  twice 
touching  their  lips  with  a  graceful  and  eager  gesture. 
In  one  hall,  however,  the  boys  remained  seated ; 
these,  the  principal  explained  to  me,  are  the  sons  of 
the  rajah  and  of  his  nobles;  and,  being  descended 
from  Rama  and  the  sun,  are  not  expected  to  salute 
a  visitor. 

The  whole  instruction  here  is  gratuitous,  and  the 
examinations  give  entrance  to  government  careers. 
The  students  are  taught  mathematics,  the  English 
language  and  literature,  the  dialects  of  India,  and 
the  Persian  language.  For  the  higher  classes  there 
is  also  instruction  in  Sanskrit,  Pali,  the  Brahmanic, 
Buddhist,  and  Persian  philosophies  and  the  philoso- 
phies of  modern  Europe.  Spencer  and  Stuart  Mill 
are  read  as  classics. 

The  principal,  who  is  a  Bengali,  is  ready  to  con- 
verse, and  seems  well-informed  as  to  what  is  going 
on,  not  only  in  England  but  in  the  rest  of  Europe. 
He  speaks  admiringly  of  Burnouf,  of  Barthelemy 
St.  Hilaire,  of  Bergaigne,  of  the  great  French  Sans- 
kritists.  As  a  rule,  he  says,  India  knows  Europe 
only  through  England.  "A  young  student  who 
enters  on  the  higher  studies  begins  with  the  English 
classics:  Shakespeare,  Milton  (a  good  beginning  for 


208  IN  INDIA. 

a  Hindu  brain),  then,  and  especially,  Addison,  Pope; 
later,  the  philosophers  and  economists,  Locke, 
Hume,  Adam  Smith,  Burke;  all  the  thinkers  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries,  down  to  Her- 
bert Spencer,  whose  influence  is  very  great.  In 
respect  to  France  and  Germany,  we  know  them 
only  at  second  hand.  In  general  we  do  not  know 
the  languages  of  these  two  countries.  And  still  we 
are  beginning  to  admire  something  outside  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  if  Hegel  and  Fichte  are  unfamiliar  to  us, 
we  study  the  Oriental  philosophies,  especially  the 
Upanishads,  the  ancient  Vedantism,  where  we  find 
included  all  Spinoza,  Kant,  Hegel,  and  Schopen- 
hauer." 

By  degrees  he  becomes  animated,  and  I  seem  to 
detect  in  him  a  fund  of  enthusiasm  for  the  old 
metaphysics  of  his  country.  "Within  the  last  five 
or  six  years,"  he  says,  "there  has  been  a  reaction  in 
its  favor.  Under  English  influence,  writers  in  Cal- 
cutta (the  school  of  the  Brahmos)  have  denounced 
the  immoralities  and  follies  of  the  Hindu  religion. 
We  now  begin  to  recognize  that  under  its  extrava- 
gances is  hidden  a  profound  idea,  and  you  will  see 
that  it  is  defended  by  our  scholars  and  thinkers. 
We  aspire  to  be  ourselves.  Observe  the  maharajah, 
who  has  introduced  English  ideas,  has  given  us  a 
college  in  Jaipur,  a  museum,  and  an  industrial 
school;  he  does  nothing  against  Hinduism.  In  his 
palace  at  Amber,  there  is  always  the  sacrifice  of 
goats  to  Kali.  But  beneath  the  symbol,  he  sees  the 
idea ;  we  distinguish  the  spirit  beneath  the  letter, 
the  thought  contained  in  the  religious  forms  which 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  209 

appeal  to  the  multitude.  There  is  a  reaction 
against  the  English  theism  which  young  Bengal, 
that  is  to  say,  the  intellectual  elite  of  India,  had 
welcomed  with  too  great  enthusiasm.  We  feel  that 
we  have  something  of  our  own,  original  and  more 
profound.  That  we  read  and  admire  Herbert 
Spencer  is  because  he  criticises  the  idea  of  a  per- 
sonal God  as  one  of  the  forms  of  anthropomorphism." 

Does  this  Hindu  speak  truly?  Is  it  possible  that 
India,  becoming  once  more  conscious  of  herself,  is 
throwing  off  the  intellectual  yoke  of  England? 
Does  she  propose  to  bring  forward  her  idea  of  life 
and  the  world,  in  opposition  to  the  English  concep- 
tion? Is  it  possible  that  in  the  peace  enjoyed  under 
English  rule,  the  Hindu  brain,  so  long  paralyzed  by 
Muhammadan  oppression,  once  more  begins  to 
work?  And  if  so,  what  will  come  of  it? 

Meanwhile  it  is  interesting  to  see  the  poles  of 
humanity  thus  brought  face  to  face — English  energy, 
practical  will,  and  positive  sense,  and  Hindu  specula- 
tion and  tendency  to  the  metaphysical  dream  which 
makes  thought  triumphant,  sovereign  over  desire 
and  illusions,  and  kills  the  active  faculties. 

DECEMBER  19. 

A  day  devoted  to  the  gratification  of  the  eye, 
first,  wandering  alone  through  this  astonishing  pink 
street,  filling  the  soul  with  the  delight  of  color, 
intoxicating  myself  with  the  whimsicalities  of  this 
Jaipur.  Then,  outside  the  town,  we  take  the  road 
leading  to  Amber,  a  pretty  white  ribbon,  lying  amid 
the  verdure  of  strange  thick-leaved  plants,  as  tall  as 


210  ZN  INDIA. 

little  trees.  With  their  spiny,  fat  tennis-rackets  of 
leaves,  they  cover  the  ground  for  a  great  distance ; 
a  stiff,  immovable  vegetation  which  seems  that  of 
some  other  planet.  From  the  midst  of  it  arise 
ancient  structures,  innumerable  kiosks  and  pavilions 
of  marble,  shining  in  the  good  sunlight.  Red  and 
blue  troops  of  men  and  women  are  gayly  moving 
along  the  road. 

I  have  never  seen  so  many  and  so  handsome 
peacocks.  They  wander  in  the  road,  the  sap- 
phire in  their  plumage  gleaming  softly  in  the 
light.  These  birds  are  wild,  yet  perfectly  tame; 
they  belong  to  no  one,  and  live  unmolested  among 
the  human  beings.  Like  all  harmless  creatures, 
they  are  sacred  to  the  good  Hindus,  who  count  it  a 
religious  duty  to  feed  them.  "They  do  no  harm," 
Cheddy  says  to  me  soberly.  "English  very  naughty, 
throw  stones  at  them." 

Further  on,  a  deserted  palace,  green  with  wild 
vegetation,  seems  to  rest  upon  the  mirror  of  a  stag- 
nant pond,  whose  black,  infected  water  gives  back 
a  dull  reflection.  On  its  shore  crocodiles  lie  motion- 
less, asleep.  All  about  us  the  graceful,  sunny  hills 
are  relieved  against  a  tranquil  blue  sky.  The  sun  is 
not  too  hot,  the  air  subtle,  light,  exhilarating. 

Six  P.  M.  We  make  a  hurried  visit  to  the  maha- 
rajah's  palace,  the  stables  where  a  hundred  Arab 
horses  paw  the  ground,  the  kennels,  the  chained  ele- 
phants, the  greenhouses;  and  then  it  is  time  to  say 
good-by  to  the  pink  city.  Near  the  railway  station, 
a  little  Rajput  schoolboy,  loaded  with  his  Hindu- 
stani books,  bids  me  a  delicious  "Good  afternoon  !" 


DELHI.    JAIPUR.  211 

In  the  train,  at  once  repossessed  by  the  European 
environment,  one  has  a  feeling  of  having  come  out 
from  a  brilliant  theatre,  from  a  spectacle  made  to 
amuse,  to  divert  from  real  life,  like  one  of  Shake- 
speare's comedies,  or  like  a  pastoral  of  Watteau. 
An  operetta-world,  the  world  of  a  dream :  this 
patriarchal  community,  these  clans,  these  cavalcades 
of  nobles,  the  children  of  the  sun ;  this  wise  king, 
beloved  by  his  little  nation,  tyrannical — for  instance, 
one  may  not  photograph  at  Jaipur  without  the 
rajah's  express  permission — and  paternal ;  these 
warriors,  with  lance  and  shield,  with  their  whimsical 
beards  and  showy  dress;  the  happy,  laughing 
people;  the  blue  dogs,  the  hunting  leopards  and 
lynxes.  It  is  the  stage-scene  of  an  operetta,  these 
streets  crushed-strawberry  color,  the  pink  houses 
which  you  cannot  believe  are  really  stone,  the  crenel- 
lated castles  on  the  hills,  the  light,  fantastic  struc- 
tures, the  palace  of  the  Wind,  the  palace  of  the 
Clouds,  the  gate  of  Rubies,  the  hall  of  Splendors, 
the  humid  greenhouses  full  of  a  fresh  odor  of 
vaporous  ferns,  the  fields  covered  with  thick-leaved 
plants,  the  blue  peacocks  popping  out  from  thickets, 
the  deserted  kiosks  on  the  shore  of  dark  pools.  It 
is  an  operetta-existence,  where  nothing  is  serious,  or 
heavy,  or  sad,  that  is  lived  by  this  laughing,  artist- 
population,  who  do  no  other  work  than  carve  little 
gods  and  little  beasts  in  marble,  embroider  slippers 
with  silver,  illuminate  their  walls  with  blue  designs, 
bestride  Arab  horses,  feed  the  birds  of  the  air,  fly 
kites,  and  enjoy,  in  full  security,  the  light  of  day  and 
the  goodness  of  things.  Yes,  a  happy,  simplified, 


212  IN  INDIA. 

childish  life,  which  lacks  only  its  orchestra,  chorus, 
and  ballet,  and  whose  dazzling  poetic  vision  clings 
in  one's  memory,  as  he  turns  away  toward  the  dark- 
ness and  the  sadness  of  our  Europe. 

The  hills  have  closed  in  about  the  charming  city. 
Now  a  golden  dust  floats  in  the  air.  A  solitary 
heron  stands  motionless  on  the  edge  of  a  lake,  which 
is  all  rose-color  and  blue  in  the  twilight  radiance. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BOMBAY. 

DECEMBER  21. 

THIRTY-SIX  hours  of  railway.  As  we  advance 
southward,  toward  the  great  English  city,  the  train 
becomes  crowded  :  fat  babus,  important  native  mer- 
chants, encumber  the  carnages  with  their  travel- 
ling-bags, loll  indolently  and  insolently  upon  the 
cushions.  The  third-class  are  crammed  with  a 
Hindu  crowd,  chattering,  laughing,  and  conversing. 
For  luggage  they  have  only  their  brass  jars,  engraved 
with  figures  of  Krishna  and  Ganesa.  At  the 
stations  Brahmans,  loaded  with  leathern  bottles, 
come  to  refill  these  jars.  Only  the  Brahmans  can 
perform  this  duty,  for  a  Kshatriya  travelling  would 
be  defiled  by  drinking  water  which  a  Sudra  had 
poured  out.  But  everybody  can  touch  what  the 
Brahman  has  touched.  Be  his  duties  ever  so  servile, 
the  Brahman  remains  a  Brahman,  preserving  his 
supernatural  virtue ;  the  superiority  of  caste  re- 
mains, whatever  the  inferiority  of  occupation. 

There  is  little  to  notice.  In  these  long  journeys 
the  mind,  blurred  by  the  multitude  of  images  lately 
perceived,  becomes  somnolent,  and  is  interested  in 
nothing.  Cities  rapidly  seen,  Baroda,  Ahmedabad, 
great  railway  stations,  tiffins,  breakfasts  with  the 

213 


214  IN  INDIA. 

everlasting  curry,  the  simple  outlines  of  blue  moun- 
tains. Athwart  all  this,  the  same  arid  country ;  and, 
perpetually,  the  amazing  troops  of  monkeys  leaping 
in  the  tall  brush. 

The  second  morning,  as  I  awake,  there  is  a  sur- 
prise. Suddenly  you  seem  to  be  in  Ceylon  again. 
Again  the  moist  region,  hot,  stormy ;  the  great 
equatorial  vegetation.  Everywhere  there  is  water. 
Dense  forests  of  palm-trees  descend  toward  lagoons, 
mirror  their  slender  colonnades  in  the  blue  estuaries, 
and  their  great  green  leafy  coronets,  rising  in  the 
moist  air,  make  shadowy  arches,  under  which  small 
houses  find  shelter.  The  ground  is  black,  marshy, 
abounding  in  pools  of  water.  Thousands  of  large- 
footed  birds  people  the  edges  of  the  marshes  and  of 
the  salt-water  inlets.  Here  and  there,  on  the  west, 
the  water  is  continuous;  roads  form  and  increase  in 
extent,  immense  spaces  of  a  calm  and  splendid  blue, 
spotted  with  islets  that  seem  half-sunken  forests, 
and  bordered  here  with  cocoanut  groves,  there  with 
low  hills,  which  their  dense  vegetation  covers  like  a 
thick  bluish  mist.  Now,  a  great  space  of  the  Indian 
Ocean  appears;  the  space  seems  to  broaden  to  con- 
tain all  this  light. 

Then  a  clattering  of  iron ;  a  great  uproar;  a  huge 
railway  terminus;  we  come  into  the  station  of  Bori- 
Bunder;  this  is  Bombay. 

Five  P.  M.  It  is  extremely  warm,  with  a  moist  heat 
as  of  a  greenhouse,  very  fatiguing  and  enervating. 
One  has  not  strength  to  select  and  group  impres- 
sions, and,  indeed,  it  is  all  too  varied.  This  city  is 
composed  of  several  cities,  spread  out  over  five 


BOMBAY.  215 

islands.  It  would  seem  that  all  the  races,  all  the 
religions,  all  the  forms  of  architecture,  all  the  indus- 
tries of  the  globe  are  blended  and  confused  here 
into  an  extraordinary  mixture,  seething  and  smoking 
in  the  sunlight. 

I  am  sitting  on  the  terrace  of  a  cafe*  on  the  Es- 
planade. Here,  the  island  is  contracted  into  a  very 
narrow  tongue  of  land,  the  sea  visible  on  both  sides, 
on  the  right  a  great  harbor,  girt  with  forests  on  the 
remote  edge ;  on  the  left  a  broad  yellow  beach 
which,  curving  slightly,  stretches  away  toward  a 
promontory,  and  dark,  shiny  clumps  of  palm-trees. 
Upon  this  beach,  two  miles  or  so  of  straight  road, 
which  is  bordered  on  the  left  by  immense  buildings, 
Gothic  or  Venetian,  separated  from  the  city  by 
lawns  and  gardens. 

Along  this  road  by  the  sea,  all  the  commercial 
aristocracy  of  Bombay  is  now  on  its  way  to  the 
Esplanade  to  enjoy  the  evening  breeze.  Here,  fac- 
ing the  harbor,  the  carriages  are  standing  in  a  crowd, 
while  the  Sepoy  band  plays  European  airs.  Beside 
the  fat  Hindus  in  their  white  tunics  and  pink  tur- 
bans, many  Englishmen  and  Parsis,  the  latter 
dressed  in  European  style,  but  grotesquely  coiffed 
with  a  mitre  of  starred  pasteboard ;  also,  European 
and  native  officers  are  gathered  outside  the  cafes, 
sipping  their  lemonade  or  cocktails.  There  are, 
moreover,  many  ayahs,  Hindu  nurses  with  their 
babies,  adorned  like  shrines  covered  with  velvet  and 
brocade. 

In  the  carriages,  motionless  as'at  a  race,  the  Parsi 
ladies  sit  in  state.  This  is  the  first  glimpse  of  femi- 


2l6  IN  INDIA. 

nine  "society"  in  India.  The  high-caste  Hindu 
women  are  all  mysteriously  shut  up  in  the  zenanas, 
and  you  must  go  to  the  dealers  to  see  the  silks  and 
costly  embroideries  of  Benares  and  Delhi.  But 
here  they  may  be  seen  in  the  open  air  and  sunlight, 
draped  about  the  supple  and  living  figure:  yonder 
old  lady  is  clad  in  one  piece  of  material  which  en- 
wraps her  from  head  to  foot ;  but  the  material  is 
a  heavy  crimson  silk,  fringed  with  gold.  As  she 
moves  slightly,  it  falls  in  great  lustrous  folds.  They 
are  all  thus  attired,  in  Greek  style,  and  have  veils  of 
muslin,  or  of  mauve  or  blue  silk,  which  follow  the 
pure  outline  of  the  head,  and  with  their  strong, 
simple  color  set  off  the  gentleness  of  Aryan  features 
and  the  whiteness  of  soft  faces.  Languid,  leaning 
far  back  in  their  carriages,  they  await,  these  opulent 
Oriental  women,  with  half-closed  eyelids,  the  even- 
ing breeze  which  shall  reanimate  them. 

And  there  is  a  marvellous  light  upon  this  showy 
assemblage,  a  light  of  a  kind  that  one  never  observes 
except  in  the  neighborhood  of  great  spaces  of  tropi- 
cal seas,  coming  from  the  water,  as  well  as  from  the 
sky.  I  have  seen  nothing  like  the  sky  here,  either 
in  Egypt,  Ceylon,  or  the  interior  of  India.  It  is  not 
at  all  blue,  but  is  all  white,  liquid  light,  full  of  heat 
and  moisture. 

Novv  the  sun  sinks  behind  Malabar  Hill,  and  in 
this  air,  peculiar  to  Bombay,  there  are  very  curious 
effects  of  radiation.  A  rose-colored  vapor  invades 
everything,  encircles  sea  and  land,  and  covers  the 
remote  forests,  which  are  not  relieved  against  the 
golden  horizon,  but  vanish  into  it  and  disappear. 


BOMB  A  Y.  217 

The  sun  seems  to  melt  as  it  sinks,  and  to  sink  in 
front  of  the  trees. 

Soon  a  light  breeze  springs  up,  and  the  roseate 
water  quivers.  The  great  black  steamers  in  a  row 
seem  dead  things  in  this  universal  faint  stir.  Out 
toward  the  open  sea,  clouds  of  vessels  have  spread 
their  wings,  and  in  the  silence  and  the  light  fly  like 
a  dream,  so  tranquil  that  they  seem  to  be  borne 
away  upon  some  broad  current,  as  if  the  whole 
water  were  slipping  away  with  them ;  and  in  follow- 
ing them  you  forget  the  Sepoy  band,  and  the  parti- 
colored ground,  and  the  languid  Parsi  ladies,  un- 
til the  little  pink  swarm  is  so  far,  so  far  away  that 
it  seems  to  be  going  out  of  our  world,  to  be  rising 
into  space,  into  those  blessed  regions  where  is  noth- 
ing but  the  calm  of  ether. 

DECEMBER  23. 

Certainly  it  is  not  easy  to  describe  the  aspect  of 
this  Bombay,  diverse  and  confused  as  it  is.  The 
eye  cannot  arrange  in  order  the  images  which  fill  it. 
I  write  them  at  random,  as  they  recur  this  evening 
after  a  day  spent  in  the  streets.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
only  way  to  give  an  idea  of  the  whirl  of  forms  and 
colors,  the  confusion  of  races  and  of  religions. 

Everywhere,  and  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  there 
is  the  streaming  crowd,  more  dense  than  in  Benares, 
a  motley  crowd  wherein  are  blended  all  the  cos- 
tumes of  Asia;  wherein  all  types  of  humanity  elbow 
one  another;  Europeans  in  coats,  the  Arab  with  his 
fez,  Persians,  Afghans,  thick-lipped  negroes,  slender 
Malays,  effeminate  Cinhalese,  Parsis  and  Jews,  Chi- 
nese in  robes  of  silk.  Probably,  since  the  time  of 


2l8  IN  INDIA. 

Alexander,  there  has  been  no  such  epitome  of  the 
entire  world,  no  city  so  cosmopolitan.  There  are 
bits  of  London  here,  bits  of  Benares,  bits  of  Shang- 
hai. Underneath  this  flux  of  foreign  races,  there  is 
a  native  substratum  of  half-naked  humanity :  fakirs 
gray  with  ashes;  letter-writers  kneeling  on  the  side- 
walks; schools  receiving  instruction  in  the  open  air; 
worshippers  bending  before  sacred  images,  covering 
them  with  native  flowers ;  coolies  who  run,  balancing 
packages  at  the  end  of  a  long  bamboo ;  naked  bar- 
bers who  are  shaving  their  customers ;  a  whole  popu- 
lation of  women  who  serve  as  porters,  girls  of  low 
caste,  almost  negresses,  dripping  with  sweat,  their 
legs  bare  to  the  thigh,  sitting  on  the  ground  in  the 
shade  of  the  walls,  a  crowd  of  them  together,  miser- 
able-looking objects,  stupefied  by  hard  labor;  and 
over  everything  an  atmosphere  loaded  with  vapor. 

I  see  ancient  carts  dragged  by  heavy,  patient 
oxen,  amid  tram-cars,  victorias,  palanquins,  sedan- 
chairs.  I  see  walls  covered  with  blue  elephants, 
with  placards,  in  English,  Persian,  Urdu,  Hindu- 
stani; mosques,  Christian  churches, — Anglican,  Wes- 
leyan,  Catholic, — Hindu  temples,  Parsi  temples. 
Railways  run  along  the  boulevards,  past  pagodas 
bristling  with  their  hundred  thousand  monsters, 
past  the  statue  of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  past  the 
Gothic  buildings  of  the  University,  past  the  blue 
expanse  where  sleep  at  anchor  the  great  steamers. 

From  this  mass  of  images  repeated  all  day  long, 
melting  one  into  another,  I  essay  to  detach  a  few 
salient  pictures.  Here  is  the  great  market,  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  in  a  fog,  shot  through  with 


BOMBAY.  219 

sunlight,  three  or  four  thousand  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, naked  or  clad  in  beautiful  colors,  struggle  with 
each  other  among  the  oranges,  bananas,  pineapples, 
flowers,  amid  a  deafening  clamor  which  rises  from 
cages  of  monkeys  and  baskets  of  birds ;  and,  before 
soft  heaps  of  silvery  fish,  there  are  rows  of  half-nude 
women  with  lustrous  dark  skins,  kneeling  upon  tables. 
Here  are  the  offices  of  the  railway  station  at  Bori- 
Bunder,  an  immense  hall,  where  two  hundred  em- 
ployed, leaning  over  their  desks,  are  blackening 
paper;  or,  pen  over  ear,  are  searching  registers.  It 
might  be  a  great  banking  house  or  a  public  office  in 
Paris;  but  these  men  are  all  Hindus,  all  worshippers 
of  Siva  and  Vishnu,  marked  on  the  forehead  with 
the  religious  sign,  the  three  lines  drawn  with  ashes. 
There  is  the  sea,  visible  at  every  street  corner,  blue, 
motionless,  as  in  a  painted  picture.  There  is  the 
native  city — a  city  in  a  forest,  a  crowd  of  narrow, 
tortuous  streets,  under  an  uninterrupted  roof  of 
palms.  There  is  a  little  street,  where  a  marriage 
festivity  is  in  progress,  crowded  with  half-clad 
humanity,  which  flows  slowly  like  a  glutinous  wave 
among  the  sumptuous  crowd  of  guests  whose  silk 
garments  are  richly  lustrous.  There  are  rows  and 
rows  of  little  girls,  draped  in  splendid  stuffs,  and 
these  small  dark  heads,  with  smooth,  lustrous  bands 
of  hair,  so  black  that  it  has  a  blue  gleam  like  a 
raven's  wing,  are  strangely  grave  and  childish.  The 
crimson  and  orange  of  the  sinuous  satins  flame 
against  a  whitish  background  of  smooth  limbs  and 
fat  torsos  of  Brahmans,  and  against  innumerable 
nude  figures.  And  all  this  crowd  makes  an  eddy  in 


220  IN  INDIA. 

the  narrow  street,  sending  out  a  suffocating  heat 
under  the  palm-trees  which  shelter  the  houses,  and 
the  sacred  fig-trees,  where  squirrels  run  and  parrots 
chatter,  as  many  as  the  figs. 

At  the  end  of  this  Hindu  city,  near  the  sea,  is  the 
hospital  for  animals.  There  are  kennels  of  mangy 
dogs;  one  very  feeble  old  eagle;  some  pigeons  and 
parrots;  peacocks  dragging  through  the  courts  the 
splendors  of  their  tails;  a  consumptive  porcupine 
whose  dull  eyes  are  pitiful  to  see ;  a  small  crippled 
deer;  and  halls  filled  with  blind  cows.  Through 
this  curious  menagerie  wander  idly  many  Brahmans, 
perpetually  chewing  betel,  and  living  as  brothers 
among  these  sufferers,  these  animals  who  are  sacred 
because  they  manifest  for  an  instant  Siva  the  Inde- 
structible, because  they  are  sparks  in  the  vibrating 
flame  of  life.  "Health,  O  cow!"  says  a  powerful 
mantra,  "thou  mother  of  Rudra,  sister  of  Aditrya, 
source  of  Ambrosia!" 

Returning  through  the  broad  streets  of  the  busi- 
ness town,  you  observe  a  very  curious  blending  of 
English  and  Hindu  life.  Great  walls  are  covered 
with  placards  like  these:  "Theistic  Bombay  Tem- 
porary Relief  Association."  "Hindu  Cricket  Club." 
"Parsee  Cricket  Association."  I  should  like  to  see 
a  game  played  by  these  Orientals.  They  would 
scarcely  put  much  ardor  into  their  game,  the  Hindu 
cricket-players.  Clubs  of  native  "sportsmen"  are 
quite  the  most  amusing  copy  of  England  that  I 
have  seen  in  India,  more  comic  even  than  an  article 
on  English  morals  signed  by  a  babu.  Very  English 
also,  this  union  of  a  theistic  society  and  a  cricket 


BOMBAY.  221 

club — a  compound  of  athletics  and  philanthropy. 
Probably  the  cricket-players  are  theists,  and  the 
theists  are  cricket  players.  Similarly,  in  a  London 
shop,  I  saw  the  photograph  of  an  Anglican  bishop 
with  this  note  appended  :  "One  of  the  Oxford  Eight, 
in  the  University  race  of  18 — ."  In  England  this 
exploit  completes  an  Episcopal  personality  as  much 
as  would  an  edition  of  Euripides  or  a  volume  of 
sermons.  Everybody  has  heard  of  an  ideal  type, 
the  "muscular  Christian." 

Elsewhere,  red  flags  are  flying  above  the  heads  of 
a  Hindu  crowd.  "Hallelujah!"  say  the  flags. 
"Are  you  saved?  Are  you  righting?  If  not,  why 
not?  When  do  you  intend  to  get  saved?"  Sand- 
wich-men are  going  about  announcing  "the  arrival 
of  the  Salvation  Army  from  Canada,  and  a  general 
attack  upon  the  Devil  by  Captain  Hallelujah  Smith, 
formerly  a  circus  clown."  In  the  midst  of  the  Hindu 
crowd,  the  English  Salvationists  form  a  little  ring: 
they  are  all  barefooted,  clad  in  Oriental  costume, 
the  women  draped  in  red,  their  blond  faces  sur- 
rounded with  orange  muslin,  the  men  in  Bedouin 
mantles  and  turbans.  Curious,  these  English  faces, 
the  soft  pink  and  white  skin,  in  Asiatic  costumes! 

A  kind  of  little  Hindu  monkey  makes  a  confes- 
sion in  a  nasal  voice.  Then,  successively,  the 
English  Salvationists  testify,  each  holding  an  um- 
brella as  parasol.  Then  a  drum,  castanets,  and  a 
key-bugle.  The  Englishwomen  stand  quietly,  their 
hands  drooping  and  clasped,  and  sing  hymns  to 
polka  tunes,  while  the  men  accompany  with  accor- 
dions. One  of  them  makes  an  exhortation  in 


222  IN  INDIA. 

Hindustani,  a  very  young  girl,  in  Oriental  drapery, 
her  bare  feet  in  the  dust,  the  eyes  of  an  angel,  a  lily 
complexion  untouched  by  the  Indian  sun,  a  pensive 
expression,  so  serious,  calm,  and  maidenly,  one  of 
Burne-Jones's  Madonnas. 

There  is  something  at  once  comic  and  touching  in 
the  energy  and  sincerity  of  these  evangelists.  Their 
great  lack  is  of  that  sympathetic  imagination  which 
makes  it  possible  to  conceive  modes  of  soul  foreign 
to  one's  self.  Ho\v  much  superior  were  the  Jesuits 
who,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  had  such  success  in 
China!  With  what  skill  they  adapted  Christianity 
to  the  faculties  and  needs  of  the  Chinese  soul! 
These  people  here  employ  the  same  procedure  to 
touch  the  heart  of  a  poor  day-laborer  in  the  East 
End,  moving  about  in  the  black  mud,  the  stinging 
fog  of  the  Docks,  and  to  reach  these  Hindu  souls — 
of  which  we  are  so  ignorant !  The  grand  Wesleyan 
hymns  sung  to  tunes  from  the  dance  hall,  what  emo- 
tion can  they  awaken  in  these  Asiatics?  Are  they 
touched  at  sight  of  young  women  who  have  come  so 
far,  to  mingle  with  the  Bombay  populace,  to  wear 
the  same  clothes,  to  live  the  same  life  with  them,  to 
be  their  sisters,  to  love  them  in  Jesus  Christ? 

On  this  point,  Cheddy  Lai,  whom  I  have  consulted, 
says:  "The  other  missionaries  are  liked  better. 
These  do  not  come  in  a  carriage,  as  Europeans 
should;  they  dress  as  we  do;  they  are  thought  to 
be  poor,  and  they  are  despised." 

I  returned  by  the  beach,  which  is  not  on  the  edge 
of  the  harbor,  but  of  the  open  sea.  Not  a  boat  to 
be  seen.  From  here  the  city  is  hidden,  and  there  is 


BOMB  A  Y.  223 

only  this  yellow  sand,  wet  from  the  retiring  tide, 
and  the  soft  blue  of  the  ocean.  There  are  familiar 
perfumes  of  seaweed  inhaled,  in  childhood,  on 
Breton  sands.  Inland,  there  must  be  great  cliffs, 
sombre  ridges  of  moorland,  lighted  by  pale  yellow 
broom.  This  landscape,  the  same  in  Europe  and  in 
India,  tranquillizes  the  mind,  discomposed  at  sight 
of  great  ethnic  differences,  this  seething  mass  of 
foreign  peoples. 

Little  waves  are  running  in ;  they  rise  with  a  pale 
transparency,  tremble  in  a  silvery  gleam,  and  break 
with  a  soft  splash.  A  Parsi  has  come  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and,  his  lips  moving  in  prayer, 
watches  the  sun,  whose  throbbing  disk  is  about  to 
disappear.  Just  as  it  touches  the  water-line,  the 
Parsi  bends  his  head  twice,  and  then  stretches  out 
his  arms  toward  the  great  rosy  radiance  which  floats 
in  the  West. 

DECEMBER  24. 

This  morning,  after  the  chota  hazri,  I  went  up  to 
Malabar  Hill,  a  green  promontory  covered  with 
villas  and  palm-trees;  between  them  is  seen  the 
vague,  shining  blue  of  the  sea,  and  the  sparkle  of 
charming,  misty  Bombay.  The  morning  dew  is 
evaporating  in  a  thin  mist  whose  white  veils  float, 
waver,  are  torn  like  gauze,  and  out  of  which  the 
tall,  fresh  palms  lift  their  heads.  On  the  ground 
are  flowers,  as  in  Ceylon,  flowers  of  azure  and  crim- 
son, on  which  tremble  big  drops  of  water. 

Further  on,  a  garden  where  this  vegetation  is 
growing  regularly,  with  a  studied  order;  a  garden 
like  that  of  the  Taj,  solemn  in  its  light  and  silence 


224  IN  INDIA. 

and  beauty.  Among  the  clumps  of  trees  rise  three 
towers,  white,  low,  extremely  massive,  that  are  not 
temples  or  habitations  of  man,  enigmatic,  disturb- 
ing here  in  the  solitude.  Around,  great  birds  hover 
in  the  air. 

It  is  the  Parsi  cemetery ;  this  garden  is  a  funereal 
spot ;  upon  these  towers  the  dead  are  exposed  and 
are  devoured  by  vultures ;  a  priest  came  to  explain 
these  things  to  me. 

Clothed  in  white,  he  says,  two  by  two,  each  couple 
holding  the  two  ends  of  a  muslin  scarf  in  token  of 
their  common  grief,  through  the  streets  of  Bombay, 
along  the  shore,  under  the  palm-trees,  among  the 
flower-beds,  the  Parsis  slowly  follow  their  dead, 
whom  two  bearers  carry,  wrapped  in  a  shroud. 
When  they  reach  the  foot  of  the  tower,  a  little  door 
opens,  the  body  is  received,  and  the  door  closed 
again.  Then  the  procession  disperses.  No  man  has 
ever  seen  what  takes  place  behind  the  closed  door, 
except  the  two  mysterious  guardians  of  the  cemetery. 

The  platform  on  the  summit  of  the  tower  is 
divided  into  three  concentric  zones,  inclined  toward 
a  central  well  which  communicates  with  a  vault. 
The  dead  are  laid  in  these  great  circles,  the  men, 
the  women,  the  children.  Each  body  is  taken  from 
its  shroud,  for,  says  a  text  of  the  Zend  Avesta: 
"Naked  thou  earnest  into  the  world,  and  naked 
shalt  thou  go  out  from  it." 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  at  six  in  the 
evening,  the  great  tawny  vultures  come  flying  from 
all  the  points  of  the  sky,  and  take  up  their  position 
upon  the  towers.  In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  not  a 


BOMS  A  Y.  225 

trace  of  the  human  form  is  left  except  a  skeleton, 
which  the  extreme  heat  of  the  sun  soon  separates, 
and  the  rain  carries  down  into  the  well.  Here  at 
the  bottom,  where  the  dust  and  debris  accumulate, 
there  are  filtering  stones,  which  purify  the  rain 
water,  so  that  no  human  particle  enters  the  ground. 
Saith  the  Zend  Avesta :  "Thou  shalt  not  defile  the 
earth,  thy  mother." 

As  we  stood  in  the  garden  more  than  fifty  vultures 
were  sitting  gravely  on  the  edge  of  a  tower,  and  I 
could  plainly  see  their  strange,  fierce  eyes,  those 
fixed  eyes  where  shines  a  flame  fed  on  human  fuel. 
An  admirable  sepulchre,  those  birds'  bodies !  No 
sooner  dead  than  to  live  again,  to  return  at  once 
into  a  whirl  of  life,  more  rapid  and  brilliant  by  far 
than  the  preceding.  To  have  been  a  poor  Parsi 
grande  dame,  one  of  those  languid  women,  in  her 
sumptuous  drapery,  waiting  indolently  for  a  breath 
of  air  to  come,  and  now  to  cleave  the  glowing  sky, 
Avith  impetuous,  strident  flight ! 

Around  us,  the  calm  and  splendor  of  the  tropi- 
cal garden.  The  warm  air  is  full  of  perfumes,  and 
the  perpetual  little  striped  squirrels  run  merrily 
through  the  avenues. 

From  here  the  view  over  the  city  is  very  beauti- 
ful. The  sea  is  of  a  very  soft,  dull  blue  under  the 
sky  white  with  its  heat,  vaporous,  pale  by  reason  of 
the  moisture  which  it  draws  up.  At  the  left,  on 
the  shore  of  this  water,  is  another  sea  of  dark  and 
lustrous  green,  whose  waves  are  motionless,  a  sea  of 
palm  trees,  out  of  which  rise  turrets  and  Gothic  bel- 
fries and  roofs  of  pagodas.  This  world  is  beautiful. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ELLORA. 

DECEMBER  26. 

NEARLY  two  hundred  miles  on  the  Great  Penin- 
sular by  moonlight,  among  weird  silhouettes  of 
mountains  rising  in  vast  flocks.  Forests,  houses, 
cliffs,  all  the  details  of  the  landscape  disappear,  and 
the  great  silent  shapes,  misty  as  phantoms  under 
the  pallid  moon,  seem  the  sole  inhabitants  of  the 
dark  globe.  Then  thirteen  hours  in  a  cart,  over  a 
bad  road,  along  with  the  driver,  in  the  Nizam,  in 
the  heart  of  the  Dekkan — this  may  well  have  tran- 
quillized one's  mind,  after  the  heat  and  uproar  of 
Bombay. 

A  savage,  deserted  country,  carpeted  with  moor- 
land and  jungle.  Sometimes  a  little  Hindu  hamlet, 
a  small  pyramidal  pagoda,  grotesque,  complicated, 
like  all  pagodas,  and  a  sacred  pool  where  the  peas- 
ants bathe  in  the  morning,  according  to  the  cere- 
monial. 

Upon  the  road,  not  a  person,  except,  about  nine 
o'clock,  a  troop  of  men,  children,  women,  following 
a  string  of  heavy,  antique  wains  drawn  by  big  white 
oxen.  Whither  are  they  going?  It  looks  like  the 
migration  of  a  tribe,  after  the  most  primitive 
fashion. 

226 


ELLORA.  227 

This  nomad  horde  is  soon  out  of  sight.  About 
noon,  southward,  is  outlined  against  the  sky  a 
tawny  line  of  hills.  It  is  a  vast  amphitheatre  open- 
ing into  a  great  plain,  lying  north  and  south,  pierced 
with  caves  by  the  men  of  earlier  times.  Here,  in 
the  heart  of  the  peninsula,  are  the  silent  haunts  of 
the  divinities  who,  for  three  thousand  years,  have 
succeeded  each  other  in  this  Indian  land.  There 
sit  the  Vedic  gods,  Indra  and  Surya;  then,  the 
inert  Buddhas,  with  closed  eyes  and  crossed  legs; 
and  then,  the  Brahmanic  Pantheon — Siva,  Paravati, 
Vishnu,  and  the  whole  train  of  their  incarnations; 
then,  the  twenty-four  Sages  of  the  Jains ;  all  hewn 
in  the  ancient  rock,  cut  out  in  the  mountain  of 
which  they  still  remain  a  part,  alone  in  the  solitude, 
in  face  of  the  unchanging  landscape;  intact  as  on 
the  first  day. 

At  twenty  rods'  distance  from  the  mountain,  noth- 
ing is  distinguishable.  All  is  covered  with  a  forest 
of  impenetrable  brushwood,  the  sombre  jungle  which 
seems  thrown  down  from  the  hilltop  to  guard  the 
secret  of  the  place.  It  grows  in  the  glowing  sand 
in  the  dry  and  terrible  heat,  all  in  a  mass  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff.  There  are  no  flowers  here,  none  of  the 
luxuriance  and  beauty  of  the  vegetation  of  Ceylon 
or  Bombay.  All  is  arid  and  burning.  We  advance 
cautiously.  Under  the  thorny  shrubs,  upon  the 
glowing  mica,  gleams  the  gliding  of  formidable 
cobras.  They  debar  access  to  the  temples  of  Siva; 
and  one  remembers  that,  in  images  of  the  god,  they 
are  multiplied  around  his  neck  and  his  waist,  mystic 
symbols  of  all-destroying  Time. 


228  /AT  INDIA, 

We  reach  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  which  rises  a  per- 
pendicular wall.  Just  in  front  of  us,  it  yawns  apart, 
disclosing  within,  an  isolated  gray  mass  of  rock  about 
as  high  as  the  cliff  itself;  but  there  is  something 
peculiar  about  this  mass  of  rock:  it  is  hollowed  out, 
recessed,  its  surface  is  rough  with  scales  and  little 
spires,  like  a  granite  cliff  tortured  by  the  eternal 
gnawing  of  the  sea.  Suddenly  you  recognize  the 
entangled  lines  of  a  pagoda.  This  is  the  Ka'ilas, '  'the 
Paradise  "  of  Siva,  a  Hindu  temple  made  of  a  piece 
of  the  mountain :  pavilions,  terraces,  pyramids,  bell- 
towers,  stairs,  obelisks,  guardian  elephants,  all  out 
of  one  block,  all  hewn  in  one  enormous  stone,  which 
has  been  detached,  cut  out,  chased,  like  a  piece  of 
ivory  in  the  hands  of  a  Chinese  workman.  On  each 
side  and  behind  it,  like  the  case  to  contain  a  precious 
object,  three  rough,  perpendicular  walls  of  rock  rise 
to  the  height  of  a  hundred  and  thirty  feet,  as  if 
hewn  by  three  strokes  of  a  magic  sword  to  isolate 
the  rock  which  glorifies  Siva.  The  open  space  where 
the  Kailas  stands  is  nearly  four  hundred  feet  deep 
and  two  hundred  broad;  the  isolated  rocky  mass 
itself  is  a  hundred  and  sixty  feet  long,  a  hundred 
broad,  and  rises  to  the  height  of  a  hundred  feet. 

As  you  stand  looking  at  this  Kailas,  a  strange  feel- 
ing comes  over  you,  at  first  entirely  inexplicable. 
Is  it  because  of  the  surrounding  silence  and  desert; 
is  it  because  there  is  nothing  constructed  in  this 
pagoda — I  mean  to  say,  no  stone  laid  upon  stone ;  or 
is  it  because  the  uniform  tone  of  coloring  is  that  of 
rock  weathered  since  the  beginning  of  the  geologic 
epochs,  that  of  the  brown  wall,  which  from  north  to 


ELLORA.  229 

south,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  bounds  the  plain? 
One  cannot  say,  but  the  singular  fact  remains  that 
nothing  here  suggests  the  idea  of  human  labor. 
There  is  no  inscription,  no  detail  suggesting  a  daily 
ceremonial,  no  place  where  the  priests  could  be 
lodged.  This  is  a  work  of  nature,  in  praise  of  the 
divinity  who  symbolized  her;  this  pagoda,  which 
makes  part  of  the  solid  strata  of  the  earth,  is  like  an 
eternal,  indestructible  thing — not,  however,  inert, 
but  still  alive  with  the  life  of  the  great  earth  itself. 
For  its  roof  of  massive  rock  is  still  covered  with  all 
the  primitive  stratum  of  vegetable  growth,  bristling 
with  grasses  and  with  great  stiff  plants  which  seem 
to  be  sacred  candelabra.  All  around,  the  heated 
atmosphere  quivers  in  white  waves;  and  animal  life 
palpitates :  flocks  of  parrots  whirling  in  the  air  like 
green  flames;  crows  hopping  over  the  ancient 
statues t  squirrels  which  seem  at  home  here,  running 
over  the  steps,  trotting  in  and  out  through  the  taber- 
nacles. Inside  the  Kailas,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
sanctuaries  dug  into  the  living  rock,  in  the  mysterious 
bare  chambers  with  their  mystic  symbols  of  Siva, 
bats  fly  in  silent  circles. 

I  walk  around  outside  the  monolith,  and  am  over- 
whelmed by  the  enormous  size  of  the  stone  box  in 
which  it  stands,  of  the  wall  which  shuts  it  in  and 
overhangs  it,  recessed  at  its  base,  hewn  out  in  a  black 
groove,  a  sombre  gallery  going  entirely  around  it, 
and  supported  by  rough  pillars.  Above  this  gallery, 
the  cliff  drops  plumb,  like  a  heavy,  voluminous 
mantle  of  rock,  striated  with  blue  lines  by  the  eter- 
nal drip  of  water.  On  the  three  sides,  facing  this 


230  IN  INDIA. 

perfectly  naked  cliff,  the  Kai'las  presents  its  tangle  of 
figures  of  gods  and  animals;  it  lifts  its  pyramids,  it 
unfolds  all  its  complication  of  outlines.  There  could 
be  nothing  so  impressive  as  the  contrast :  remove  this 
pagoda  out  of  the  brute  mass  from  which  it  was 
hewn,  set  it  up  in  the  open  air,  and  you  would  lose 
the  feeling  of  the  blind,  crushing  labor  which  sepa- 
rated it  from  the  cliff,  in  order  to  carve  it.  Espe- 
cially, you  would  detach  it  from  nature ;  it  would  no 
longer  be  a  part  of  the  earth  itself,  thus  expressing 
the  fundamental  idea  of  the  Siva-worship. 

The  power,  the  constant  energy,  itself  invariable 
amid  the  motion  or  the  pause  of  its  dispersed  mani- 
festations, the  Being,  unknowable  and  absolute,  who 
displays  himself  in  the  incessant  production  of  indi- 
vidual beings,  from  whom  comes,  into  whom  is  ab- 
sorbed, all  life,  could  by  no  symbol  be  so  well 
expressed  as  by  this  rock  which,  rising  out  of  the 
solid  strata  that  form  the  substance  of  the  globe,  else- 
where crops  out  in  cliffs,  but  here  follows  geometric 
lines  of  terraces;  then  becomes  supple,  complicated, 
undulating,  in  organic  forms;  represents  all  manifes- 
tations of  life:  first,  an  army  of  gigantic  elephants, 
almost  completely  detached  from  the  rock,  but  still 
making  part  of  the  brute  mass;  then,  higher  up, 
among  entanglements  of  tropical  creepers,  among 
processions  of  monkeys  and  of  tigers,  rises,  yet 
still  caught  at  its  sides,  in  the  animal  world;  dis- 
plays, after  this,  human  forms,  unfolds  the  epic  of 
the  Ramayana,  relates  the  conquest  of  the  inferior 
races  by  the  nobler  races;  higher  still,  multiplies 
figures  of  genii  and  secondary  gods;  then  is  ex- 


ELLORA.  231 

cavated  in  mysterious  halls  where,  in  the  darkness, 
centre  and  root  of  all  this  flowering  of  life  upon  the 
outer  walls,  is  the  mystic  symbol  of  Siva;  and,  at 
last,  slender,  light,  airy,  lifts  its  sharp,  pyramidal 
point  into  radiant  space. 

Right  and  left,  as  we  leave  the  Ka'ilas,  there  are 
sacred  caves  piercing  the  side  of  the  hill,  along  a 
length  of  nearly  two  miles. 

First  are  Sivaist  crypts,  difficult  of  access,  invisible 
from  without.  We  are  obliged  to  cling  to  projec- 
tions of  the  cliff,  and  creep  over  masses  of  debris 
bound  tight  by  the  jungle  to  the  face  of  the  rock. 
These  caves  are  the  secret  places  where  the  old 
Brahmans  concealed  their  religious  mysteries,  and 
he  who  penetrated  here  ignorant,  would  indeed 
emerge  initiated. 

Deep  galleries  lead  into  the  hillside,  made  visible 
at  first  by  a  wan,  cold  light,  which  lies  pallid  on  the 
gray  stone;  then  plunging  into  an  ever-deepening 
darkness,  between  rough  pillars  hewn  out  of  the 
rock.  In  this  darkness,  where  there  is  no  sound  but 
the  rush  of  bats,  you  see  gleaming  eyes  of  gold  in 
giant  bas-reliefs  of  monstrous  gods,  dancing  or  sit- 
ting enthroned.  The  further  you  advance,  the 
more  indistinct  becomes  this  row  of  forms,  at  first 
visible  in  the  gray  light  from  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
but  all  the  time  growing  fainter,  until  they  are  lost 
in  the  distant  darkness.  Why  are  they  all  so  much 
alike;  why  have  they  all  the  same  attributes?  This 
is  Siva,  in  the  entire  series  of  his  incarnations. 
Yes;  all  these  mystic  outlines,  sinuous  and  flexible 
as  life,  are  those  of  his  various  bodies;  and  each 


232  IN  INDIA. 

of  these  huge  bas-reliefs  has  one  of  the  god's 
faces. 

Here  he  is,  Siva  the  Destroyer,  and  his  three  eyes, 
which  behold  the  past,  the  present,  the  future,  shine 
with  a  white  light,  that  light  which  reduces  all  crea- 
tures to  ashes;  his  six  arms  brandish  swords,  where- 
on hang  transpierced  corpses,  his  feet  trample  upon 
skeletons.  Elsewhere,  he  reposes,  contemplative, 
girt  with  serpents  about  his  neck  and  body,  emblems 
of  his  eternity.  Again,  Siva,  with  soft,  confused 
outlines,  mysterious,  androgynous,  smiling.  From 
his  side  emerges  a  soft-outlined  female  figure,  and 
above  his  head,  very  faint,  in  much  lower  relief  than 
the  figure,  a  cloud  of  human  forms  rise,  floating,  as 
the  smoke  ascends  from  a  flame.  It  is  still  Siva, 
who,  far  back  in  the  dark  gallery,  smiles  at  Paravati ; 
it  is  he  who  dances  merrily,  surrounded  by  his 
buffoons;  it  is  he  who,  again,  fierce,  with  teeth  set 
in  fury,  transpierces  a  child.  And  skeletons,  signify- 
ing death,  alternate  with  bulls,  which  signify  life. 
And  in  the  depths  of  the  gallery  a  nude  stone  repre- 
sents the  eternal  Siva  emblem. 

Before  all  this  transparency  of  symbol,  this  reve- 
lation of  the  god,  one  stands  astonished.  The  idea 
radiates  from  these  images  and  transfigures  them. 
This  Siva  is  no  longer  a  foreign  divinity,  peculiar  to 
a  certain  race  and  a  certain  epoch,  to  be  observed 
and  studied  as  such.  We  know  this  power  our- 
selves. It  is  Nature  expressed  in  these  changeful 
forms,  outlined  here  on  the  walls  in  this  subter- 
ranean solitude.  This  is  the  divinity  manifested  as 
well  in  the  perpetual  coming  forth  of  young  and 


ELLORA.  233 

brilliant  life,  as  in  its  frightful  destruction ;  the 
eternal  and  impassive,  who  knows  not  the  suffering 
nor  the  joy  of  the  created.  The  Brahmanic  religion 
conceived  the  destroying  and  the  renewing  force  as 
two  aspects  of  the  same  power;  it  made  of  the 
Destroyer  and  the  Regenerator  one  divinity ;  and 
in  this  lies  its  great  originality. 

While  other  races,  powerless  to  rise  above  the 
human  point  of  view,  regarded  good  and  evil,  the 
beautiful  and  the  hideous,  as  distinguishing  attri- 
butes; and  classed  their  gods  in  accordance  with 
characteristics  strictly  relative  to  human  sensibili- 
ties, the  Hindus  conceived  that,  from  the  eternal 
point  of  view,  there  was  neither  god  nor  devil,  but 
an  absolute  Power  which,  whether  creating  or  de- 
stroying, remains  itself  the  same.  More  definitely, 
death  appeared  to  them  as  one  of  the  changes  whose 
succession  makes  a  life.  For,  according  to  them,  as 
according  to  modern  science, — La  vie  c  est  la  mart, 
says  Claude  Bernard, — the  living  being  is  but  a  form, 
a  mode  of  grouping;  its  material  is  forever  passing 
away;  we  live  by  the  periodic  death  of  the  cellules 
whose  association  makes  our  body.  We  are  eddies, 
at  every  moment  composed  of  new  substance ;  as 
each  eddy  gives  up  a  certain  quantity  of  matter,  it 
absorbs  and  carries  off  a  certain  other  quantity  of 
matter,  equivalent  to  what  it  has  lost ;  and  deaths 
are  perpetually  made  good  by  births. 

It  is  the  same  with  all  the  groups  everywhere  in 
the  visible  world,  they  are  forming  or  separating, 
but  separating  only  to  form  new  combinations, 
under  whose  variety  persists  a  diffused  being,  itself 


234  IN  INDIA. 

one  and  imperishable.  The  world  may  be  com- 
pared to  an  ocean,  in  which  are  moving  millions  of 
waves.  Each  wave  which  rises  and  sinks  is  a  life 
which  begins  and  ends,  no  sooner  falling  in  foam, 
then  an  irresistible  impulse  lifts  it  again  toward  the 
light.  But  who  does  not  see  that  these  rhythmic 
undulations  are  only  appearances,  since  at  each 
moment  their  material  is  different  and  in  each  one 
of  them  there  is  nothing  real  except  the  single, 
general  force,  which  blindly,  indifferently,  without 
regard  for  local  shocks  or  interferences,  keeps  all 
this  sea  in  its  murmurous  motion?  An  individual 
being  is  but  a  momentary  fragment  of  this  force. 
The  individual  changes,  grows,  dies;  but  the  force 
remains  unaffected.  It  is  the  same  Siva,  radiant  in 
the  candid  young  forehead  of  the  girl,  in  her  firm, 
delicate  cheek  with  its  tint  of  rose,  who  reduces  to 
nameless  liquids  this  corpse  upon  which  we  dare  not 
look.  It  is  the  same  Siva  who  acted  in  our  primitive 
nebula,  and  who  now  is  sun  and  planets,  and  the 
continents,  seas,  mountains  of  the  globe,  its  organic 
forms,  its  races  of  men,  its  communities  and  cities. 
It  is  the  same  Siva  who,  transforming  visible  action 
into  molecular,  by  the  slow  destruction  of  planets, 
returns  to  his  primitive  condition  of  abstract  energy, 
whence  may  emerge  a  new  sun,  planets,  seas,  conti- 
nents, vegetation,  a  whole  multiple  and  luminous 
life. 

Let  us  go  further:  this  energy  of  our  solar  system, 
even,  is  not  an  isolated  power;  it  is  but  part  of  the 
total  energy,  since  throughout  the  universe,  all  stars 
— or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  all  particles  of  matter — 


ELLORA.  235 

make  their  attraction  felt.  Our  system  moves,  as  a 
whole,  toward  a  certain  point  in  the  firmament. 
Who  knows  if  it  is  not  describing  an  immense  circle, 
lessening  slowly ;  if  it  may  not  fall,  and  all  the  other 
systems  also,  into  a  certain  central  point,  as  its  own 
planets  fall  into  its  sun,  and  if  the  whole  universe 
does  not  tend  to  return  to  homogeneity,  to  the 
undifferentiated?  This  possible  law  Hindu  wisdom 
may  have  grasped,  in  speaking  of  those  "days  of 
Brahma,"  those  incalculable  periods,  during  which 
the  neuter  Brahma  expands,  develops,  throws  out 
beings,  attains  consciousness,  contracts  again,  re- 
turns into  its  primitive  condition ;  becomes  again 
the  neuter  Brahma.  Had  not  the  Sivaist  this  idea, 
in  saying  that,  at  the  end  of  each  kalpa,  Siva 
destroys  men,  gods,  demons,  all  created  things? 

Whether  or  not  science,  at  the  present  day,  con- 
siders probable  these  alternations  of  development 
and  of  universal  dissolution,  certainly  she  makes 
known  to  us  a  universal  and  permanent  power,  act- 
ing at  every  moment,  and  at  every  point  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  of  which  we  can  say  nothing  except  that 
it  manifests  itself  to  us  above  and  below,  in  the 
general  and  the  special,  in  movements,  in  cycles  of 
organizations  and  dissolutions,  in  phenomena  of 
local  groupings  and  of  separations  of  matter,  which 
are  each  other's  complement,  appearing,  according  to 
the  point  of  view,  as  lives  or  deaths,  as  ends  or  be- 
ginnings. How  better  personify  this  power  than  as 
the  Hindus  have  done?  How  better  represent  it 
than  by  this  Siva  whom  they  call  "the  Destroyer- 
Organizer" — "he  who  brings  life  out  of  death?" 


236  IN  INDIA. 

In  a  sacred  picture  which  I  found  at  Jaipur,  he  is 
seated  at  the  bottom  of  a  cave,  in  the  depths  of  the 
earth.  Above  him  is  a  rich  country,  luxuriant  in 
vegetation.  His  beautiful  feminine  limbs  repose 
inert:  his  serene  lips  are  parted  in  a  mysterious 
smile.  Upon  his  forehead  the  crescent  of  the  new 
moon  measures  time;  around  his  neck  a  snake  signi- 
fies the  endless  revolutions  of  the  years ;  other  ser- 
pents, entwined  about  his  loins,  tell  of  the  circle  of 
births  and  deaths.  His  braided  hair  supports  the 
fruitful  Ganges;  his  trident  announces  his  triple 
power — to  create,  to  destroy,  to  re-create.  He 
holds  a  bow,  a  thunderbolt,  and  an  ax,  the  weapons 
surmounted  by  skulls.  A  bull  sleeps  at  his  feet. 
All  these  symbols  are  here  in  these  carvings  of 
Ellora.  He  is  the  reproductive  force,  "the  eter- 
nally-blest," with  its  emblem,  the  mystic  stone ;  he  is 
the  power  which  dissolves,  symbolized  by  skeletons 
and  swords;  he  is  "the  great  ascetic,"  passionless, 
immovable,  immutable,  "rooted  in  the  same  place 
for  millions  of  years."  He  is  the  god  of  Brahmans, 
of  grammarians,  of  scholars;  that  is  to  say,  he  is 
intellect,  order,  language.  He  is  the  lord  of  the 
dance  and  wine;  that  is,  of  gay  and  brilliant  life. 
He  is  bi-sexed ;  and  vaguely  outlined  figures  rise 
about  him  in  vaporous  processions. 

In  the  obscure  depths  of  the  hill,  upon  the  rude 
walls  of  rock,  one  grasps  the  meaning  of  these 
images  left  there  for  all  time — far  from  cities,  far 
from  the  tumult  of  human  life — by  men  hidden 
from  us  in  the  darkness  of  the  past,  of  whom  we 
know  absolutely  nothing  except  that  they  were  the 


ELLORA.  237 

contemporaries  of  our  barbaric  ancestors,  and  that 
they  lived  at  this  point  in  space.  But  him  whom 
they  perceived  behind  all  things,  we,  to-day,  also 
perceive;  we  hear  him  also;  in  our  "Faust"  we 
hear  his  voice : 

"In  the  stream  of  life,  in  the  whirl  of  action,  I 
float,  I  rise,  I  sink,  I  move  hither  and  thither.  Births 
and  tombs,  eternal  sea,  changeful  motion,  ardent 
life ;  I  work  at  the  noisy  loom  of  time  and  weave 
the  mantle  of  divinity." 

All  the  religious  history  of  India  is  concealed  in 
these  caves  of  Ellora.  There  is  a  succession  of 
Sivaist  halls,  overloaded  with  the  same  wealth  of 
sculptures  and  bas-reliefs. 

Here  is  a  very  unadorned  cave  sunk  far  into  the 
rock,  supported  by  rude  pillars  whose  sole  ornament 
is  a  symbolic  circle.  The  walls  are  rough-hewn, 
and  it  would  seem  that  this  sanctuary  was  left 
unfinished.  As  we  advance  the  light  from  the 
entrance  grows  faint,  and  it  is  all  blackness  before 
us.  We  are  about  to  turn  away,  with  the  idea  that 
there  is  nothing  to  see,  when  I  become  aware  of  a 
huge  phantom  somewhere  in  the  distance,  an  appari- 
tion which  nails  me  to  the  spot.  My  eyes  have 
become  accustomed  to  the  darkness;  and  there,  a 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  from  the  cave's  mouth,  a 
giant  figure,  a  white,  colossal  Buddha,  seated  with 
crossed  hands,  a  smile  frozen  on  the  lips,  formidable 
in  its  rigidity,  is  vaguely  outlined,  at  the  very  end 
of  the  cave,  against  the  blackness  of  a  niche.  This 
is  all ;  he  sits  alone  in  the  darkness,  in  this  silence 
as  of  a  tomb ;  in  this  great  excavation,  hewn  out  of 


238  IN  INDIA. 

the  rock,  remote  from  all  outside  life.  At  his  feet 
a  pool  of  black  water,  motionless  like  himself,  re- 
flects his  smile  and  his  immobility. 

There  are  several  caves  like  this,  occupied  by 
solitary  Buddhas,  who,  with  half-closed  eyes,  have 
entered  into  serenity.  A  strange  contrast  with  the 
Sivaist  caves,  overflowing  with  all  forms  of  life, 
expressive  of  all  the  exuberance  of  the  Hindu 
imagination.  Yet,  notwithstanding  their  difference, 
they  translate  conceptions  which  are  each  other's 
complement.  Those  lead  to  this,  as  an  orgy  of 
metaphysical  speculation  leads  to  the  paralysis  of 
the  will  and  complete  inaction,  as  his  meditation 
upon  the  one  Existence  has  led  the  Brahman  to 
forget  his  own  personal  being,  and — showing  him 
illusions  everywhere  and  destroying  desire  within 
him — has  set  him  free  from  all  temptation  to  effort 
or  action.  Siva  and  Buddha  sit  side  by  side,  as 
Brahmanism  and  Buddhism  have  been  able  to  live 
in  harmony,  one  appealing  to  the  mental  powers, 
the  other  dictating  the  practical  life;  and  these 
caves  may  have  been  contemporary.  At  the  same 
time,  the  extreme  difference  of  the  styles  would 
seem  to  indicate  that  long  spaces  of  time  separate 
them,  and  that  the  hill  remains  sacred  to  successive 
cults,  not  merely  to  the  Sivaists  and  Buddhists,  but 
also  to  the  Jains,  who  have  in  their  turn  excavated 
sanctuaries  in  these  cliffs;  and  that  all  the  Indian 
religions,  one  after  another,  have  inscribed  them- 
selves here. 

They  may  pass,  and  reappear;  and  the  races  them- 
selves may  vanish;  but  the  Buddha  will  never  relax 


ELLORA.  239 

his  smile — this  smile  which  has  been  upon  his  lips  for 
two  thousand  years.  How  peaceful  the  cool  dark- 
ness of  the  cave,  at  the  feet  of  the  great  tranquil 
figure !  What  happiness  it  must  be  to  feel  one's  self 
at  last  enfranchised ;  to  be  no  longer  conscious  of 
the  flight  of  life,  of  the  incessant  fall  into  the  sad 
past  of  all  beloved  objects;  to  conquer  time  as  he 
has  done  whom  twenty  centuries  leave  untouched ! 
As  I  stand  leaning  against  his  solid  knee,  under  the 
deathless  gesture  of  his  wan  hand,  I  can  see  the  calm 
gaze  which  has  filtered  between  his  eyelids  ever 
since  the  day  when  a  nation  of  laborers — vanished 
how  long  ago — detached  him  from  the  rock.  Out 
there,  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery,  there  is  day- 
light, a  luminous  rectangle,  framed  in  the  sombre 
stone,  and  cut  by  black  columns;  there  is  a  far-off, 
splendid  landscape,  a  vast  country,  quivering  in  the 
overheated  air.  Flocks  of  birds  make  a  streak 
across  the  torrid  sky.  In  the  distance  glitters  a 
small  pagoda,  dominating  a  hamlet  where,  for  many 
a  year,  lives  of  men  have  silently  followed  one 
another. 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE  VOYAGE. 

DECEMBER  28. 

AT  seven  in  the  morning  we  leave  Bombay.  You 
go  on  board  the  steamer,  select  your  cabin,  study  the 
faces  of  the  people  with  whom  you  are  to  spend  the 
next  three  weeks,  go  to  look  at  the  engine — and 
suddenly  become  aware  that  you  are  off.  In  the 
blue  of  the  water,  a  great,  rigid  white  furrow — broad 
as  a  road,  whispering  and  pulsating — leads  back  to 
the  already  misty  hillsides  and  the  glittering  roofs 
half  hidden  by  trees.  The  watery  space  rapidly 
increases  behind  us;  all  the  low  ground  soon  van- 
ishes. Only  the  mountains  long  remain  visible,  as 
on  any  remote  shore. 

It  is  always  sad,  this  sudden  disappearance  of  a 
world  in  which  one  has  lived  for  some  time. 
Abruptly  these  things,  which  just  now  were  present, 
enter  into  the  past,  and  take  on  the  halo  of  an  inex- 
pressible regret  for  that  which  is  no  more.  These 
memories — at  present  a  part  of  one's  self — are 
destined  to  lose  their  color;  the  feeling  which  now 
accompanies  them  will  let  them  go;  presently,  they 
will  die:  and  you  feel  a  great  indifference — it  would 
be  a  great  aversion,  if  these  memories  were  more 
dear — for  this  future  self,  this  stranger,  who  will  be 


THE    VOYAGE.  241 

composed  of  sentiments  at  this  moment  unknown. 
The  Buddha  was  right  in  teaching  that  grief  comes 
of  time. 

All  passes  away  with  marvellous  rapidity;  this 
ocean,  this  sun  casting  the  shadow  of  the  rigging, 
this  ship,  seem  to  be  the  only  realities.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  clearly  that  there  is  a  pink  Jaipur, 
a  real  city  of  solid  structures,  or  a  seething  Benares, 
upon  which  this  light  is  shining. 

With  what  facility  one  returns  into  the  native 
environment !  European  things  recover  their  hold 
upon  you  so  rapidly  that  you  seem  never  to  have 
left  them.  Almost  immediately  it  becomes  amus- 
ing to  observe  one's  fellow-travellers.  There  are  a 
dozen,  differing  widely  from  each  other,  whose  lives 
are  thrown  together  here  for  a  few  days.  A  con- 
tact at  every  moment  establishes  intimacy  so  com- 
plete that  we  soon  seem  to  have  known  each  other 
always.  There  are  no  reserves;  after  five  days  one 
has  more  "human  documents"  than  after  a  season 
of  balls  and  dinners  in  Paris. 

Here  is  an  Englishman,  an  officer  of  Hussars.  I 
attempt  to  describe  him,  because  he  seems  to  me  a 
specimen  of  a  very  important  class.  Twenty-six 
years  old :  "a  splendid  young  fellow."  Fair  and 
freckled,  with  clear-cut  features;  his  blue  eyes  bril- 
liant, straightforward,  bold,  and  kind  ;  a  happy  face, 
lighted  with  rapid  smiles;  sometimes,  abruptly,  a 
great  burst  of  laughter.  You  can  see  the  enthusi- 
asm of  youth,  high  spirits,  the  constant  joy  of  a 
free  and  generous  existence.  In  the  afternoon  he 
pitches  quoits  with  the  ardor  and  vivacity  of  a  boy. 


242  IN  INDIA. 

He  puts  his  heart  into  the  game,  and  his  move- 
ments show  the  suppleness  of  the  fresh  young  figure. 
In  repose,  he  has  the  alert  and  simple  bearing  of  a 
man  perfectly  at  his  ease,  master  of  himself,  habitu- 
ated to  independence,  with  a  reserve  of  gravity 
under  the  sparkle  of  animal  spirits. 

His  young  wife  admires  him  as  Desdemona, 
Othello:  to  her  he  is  the  steadfast,  strong,  and  faith- 
ful man,  who  is  the  young  English  girl's  ideal,  the 
hero  of  all  the  English  novels.  And  indeed  there 
is  in  him  a  grave  and  solid  substratum  of  character. 
Upon  religion  and  duty,  and  the  family  relations, 
he  is  endowed  with  hereditary  ideas,  extremely  well 
defined  and  deeply  rooted.  Physically  and  morally 
he  is  a  "gentleman,"  by  race  and  education.  "My 
ancestors,"  he  says,  with  a  certain  pride,  "came  into 
Ireland  with  Cromwell."  Born  upon  the  paternal 
estate,  he  is  the  heir  of  a  line  of  "squires." 

His  first  years  of  childhood,  spent  in  the  country 
among  the  farmers  who  loved  and  respected  him 
as  "the  young  master";  the  generous  home  life  in 
the  great  manor-house ;  the  first  riding  to  hounds, 
with  his  father  and  grandfather,  they  in  red  coats  on 
their  big  hunters,  he  mounted  on  a  little  pony;  the 
study  of  the  Bible,  and  the  firm  fixing  of  religious 
sentiment,  from  the  nursery,  by  pictures,  by  texts 
which  decorate  the  walls,  by  family  prayers,  where 
all  the  servants  are  also  present,  by  long  and  solemn 
services,  listened  to  in  "the  squire's  pew"  of  the 
parish  church.  Then  Rugby,  the  sense  of  freedom 
and  self-respect  acquired,  the  contact  with  "the 
other  boys/'  whose  good  opinion  must  be  gained; 


THE    VOYAGE.  243 

much  cricket  and  football.  After  this,  preparation 
for  the  army  examinations,  the  military  career  hav- 
ing been  chosen  as  most  worthy  of  "a  gentleman." 
He  is  now  lieutenant  in  "a  crack  regiment,"  and 
speaks  proudly  of  his  corps:  "My  regiment  was  at 
the  battle  of  Quatre-Bras.  Three  times  they 
charged  the  Poles,  but  without  being  able  to  reach 
them.  Every  one  of  the  officers  was  killed.  We 
have  the  whole  story  of  it  in  the  regimental  Gazette" 

In  India  his  life  had  three  great  interests:  his 
wife  (with  whom  he  is  in  love),  the  service,  and  sport. 
A  liberal,  expensive  life :  that  of  a  gentleman  among 
his  equals.  I  saw  the  photograph  of  his  house,  a 
great  airy  villa,  with  Doric  columns,  standing  in  a 
broad  lawn ;  his  wife  in  an  English  cart,  before  the 
portico.  "You  can't  be  an  officer,"  he  explains, 
"without  resources  of  your  own."  His  pay  is  a 
hundred  and  seventy-five  rupees  a  month.  The  mess 
table  alone,  with  wine,  costs  two  hundred.  Horses 
and  uniforms  are  expensive;  the  club,  the  dinners, 
are  costly.  In  short,  they  live  as  aristocrats,  as 
nobles;  and  in  general  they  are  nobles,  in  pride  and 
courage.  A  noble's  duty  is  to  be  a  leader;  and 
these  sons  of  squires  are  well  fitted  to  lead.  The 
sentiment  of  duty,  backed  up  by  self-respect,  will 
easily  make  heroes  of  them.  On  this  point,  see 
what  they  did  at  Lucknow  :  remember  the  conduct 
of  Sir  Henry  Lawrence,  their  devout  resignation, 
their  calm  and  serious  valor. 

"What  does  the  Indian  officer  do,  when  he  is 
not  occupied  in  military  duty?  How  does  he  kill 
time?"  "Why,  play  games,  of  course,"  he  says,  with 


244  IN  INDIA. 

a  flash  of  his  blue  eyes,  in  his  quick,  frank  voice. 
' '  We  play  cricket,  and  hunt,  and  play  polo.  My  regi- 
ment are  famous  polo-players.  Our  champions  went 
out  to  America,  and  challenged  the  whole  United 
States.  The  old  Yankees  couldn't  touch  them ! 
We  were  proud,  I  can  tell  you."  "Is  the  game 
rough!"  "Oh,  yes!"  he  says;  he  himself  has  had 
his  skull  cracked,  and  a  young  officer  of  his  regiment 
was  killed  at  this  game.  Then  they  have  football 
and  tennis. 

Three  or  four  conversations  with  my  hussar  upon 
all  the  great  topics — religion,  morals,  politics.  He 
talks  with  admirable  frankness,  as  Englishmen  often 
do  when  you  speak  their  language  and  they  feel  at 
their  ease.  He  conversed  with  enthusiasm,  with  no 
effort  to  shine,  and  with  no  attempt  to  study  my 
ideas  inquisitively  or  critically.  He  had  much  to 
say,  speaking  with  great  sincerity,  of  what  he  con- 
sidered "vital  subjects."  His  ideas  are  very  simple ; 
he  makes  no  attempt  at  philosophy.  At  once  he 
speaks  of  God,  the  personal  English  divinity,  with  a 
mysticism  singular  in  a  creature  so  healthy  and 
active.  "Don't  you  know,"  he  says,  "it  is  only  a 
matter  of  feeling,  and  it  is  impossible  to  prove  that 
I  am  right,  but  I  can't  think  that  God  doesn't  take 
care  of  us.  I  am  certain  that  God  loves  us.  Just 
so  a  man  can't  prove  that  his  wife  loves  him,  and 
still  he  is  sure  she  does.  About  the  soul,  I  think  it 
is  a  kind  of  double,  inside  the  body.  When  a  man 
dreams,  his  body  is  weighed  down  with  sleep,  but 
his  soul  lives,  remains  active,  goes  about.  What  do 
you  suppose  becomes  of  the  human  body,  when  it 


THE    VOYAGE.  24$ 

decays?  Do  you  suppose  it  disappears  entirely? 
No;  this  body  contains  a  subtle  essence,  which  may 
have  the  same  form  ;  and  this  essence  lasts."  These 
are  the  primitive  notions  of  mankind,  which,  accord- 
ing to  Herbert  Spencer,  mark  the  very  earliest  stage 
in  the  idea  of  a  spiritual  world.  It  is  singular  to 
meet  them,  so  fervently  expressed,  in  an  English 
army  officer.  "Take  the  parable  of  the  seed,"  he 
says.  "The  seed  develops,  becomes  a  plant;  it  is 
the  same  that  it  was  at  first ;  and  still,  it  is  different. 
I  think  the  soul  develops  like  this,  after  death." 
He  quotes  Scripture,  and  speaks  of  Jesus  Christ 
with  affection  and  enthusiasm.  "How  can  anyone 
compare  the  Buddha  with  Christ?"  he  says.  "What 
did  Jesus  gain  by  his  teaching?  Nothing  but  to  be 
crucified." 

To-night  he  put  to  me  this  question,  which  a 
Frenchman  has  to  answer  constantly  in  an  English 
country:  "Your  novels  give  a  very  sad  idea  of 
France.  Why  are  they  so  smutty?  And  how  can 
we  judge  you,  except  from  the  descriptions  your 
own  people  give,  your  Daudets  and  Zolas?  It 
seems  to  me,"  he  says,  "that  the  proper  work,  the 
mission  of  the  novelist,  is  to  raise  the  level  of 
morality,  to  be  an  educator.  But  yours  are  cor- 
ruptors."  I  seek  to  explain  to  him  the  theory  of 
the  roman  experimental,  the  scientific  method.  "I 
don't  understand  this,"  he  says.  "What  is  the 
aim  of  science,  if  not  to  render  mankind  better 
and  happier?  Your  people  degrade  it.  Besides,  if 
they  must  paint  reality,  why  need  they  stir  up  all 
this  mud?  George  Eliot,  who  is  more  realistic  than 


246  IN  INDIA. 

the  French,  remains  pure,  all  the  same,  and  her 
novels  give  one  strength.  Life  is  not  filthy ;  or,  at 
least,  such  has  not  been  my  experience." 

I  believe  it ;  his  life  is  one  of  those  successes  in 
which  the  labor  of  a  hundred  generations  results. 
An  American  writer  has  said  that  the  English  gen- 
tleman, developed  in  the  open  air,  quietly  estab- 
lished upon  a  few  strong  moral  ideas,  is  one  of  the 
perfect  specimens  of  our  human  nature,  in  his  noble- 
ness and  in  his  happiness.  This  Englishman  has 
behind  him  a  wholesome  and  merry  youth ;  he 
respects  himself,  he  is  a  master  of  others ;  his  beliefs 
are  clearly  defined,  his  activity  and  energy  are  over- 
flowing. He  married  an  innocent,  merry  little  girl, 
a  "child-wife,"  who  reveres  him  as  a  hero,  and  with 
whom  he  is  in  love.  He  has  scarcely  seen  anything 
that  was  not  good  and  beautiful ;  the  literature  with 
which  he  is  familiar  is  serious,  moral,  pure,  and  in- 
tentionally silent  as  to  the  dark  lower  levels  of 
humanity.  Certainly,  he  is  not  complex;  he  has 
not  the  quivering  sensibility,  the  subtle  perceptions 
of  the  heroes  of  our  romances;  but  neither  is  he  a 
saddened  and  nervous  sceptic.  His  candor,  his 
optimism,  his  freshness  of  nature,  his  happy  and 
intact  vitality,  are  those  of  a  strong  and  virgin  soul 
whose  free  development  has  been  in  no  way  checked 
or  distorted. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  three  other  officers  on 
board,  who  are  all  going  home  on  a  year's  leave.  In 
the  morning  after  their  douche,  attired  in  whimsical 
pajamas,  they  pace  the  dripping  deck.  Then,  in 
short  light  coats  and  cloth  caps  and  flannel  trousers 


THE    VOYAGE.  247 

and  canvas  shoes,  all  day  long  they  talk,  they 
laugh,  they  eternally  fill  their  short,  straight  pipes 
with  smooth  English  tobacco,  they  read  inoffensive 
novels  of  simple  morality  and  complicated  plot.  D. 
is  the  youngest,  the  most  "boyish"  of  the  four.  But 
Captain  M.  is  the  most  seriously,  profoundly,  and 
constantly  cheerful.  He  also  is  a  squire's  son,  and 
grew  up  in  a  corner  of  this  patriarchal,  bucolic 
England,  now  fast  disappearing.  "I  liked  the  old 
farmers,"  he  says;  "they  had  a  nice  way,  when  they 
were  in  trouble,  of  coming  to  ask  a  bit  of  advice 
from  my  mother."  In  the  morning,  when  he  is 
dressing,  we  hear  him  singing  like  a  blackbird  in  his 
cabin.  He  talks  with  everybody,  and  his  radiant 
smile  makes  you  happy  to  the  bottom  of  your  heart. 
At  dinner,  in  evening  dress,  his  big  chest  strains  the 
broad  starched  surface  of  his  shirt-front.  Seated  at 
the  end  of  the  table,  where  he  carves  huge  "under- 
done" slices  of  roast  beef,  he  is  happier  and  grander 
than  ever.  To-day,  January  1st,  as  he  had  beside 
him  at  table  two  young  Italian  girls,  with  whom  he 
is  carrying  on  the  customary  flirtation,  he  proposed  : 
"Queen  Margherita!"  but  in  his  everyday  voice, 
and  with  a  smile.  Then  he  stood  up  ;  and  this  time, 
his  face  all  lighted  up,  looking  slowly  around  him, 
solemnly  he  said:  "Gentlemen,  the  Queen!"  and  I 
shall  never  forget  the  youthful  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  lieutenant  of  Hussars  rejoined :  "God 
bless  her!" 

Miss  M.,  of  the  Wesleyan  missions,  resides  at 
Jaipur,  where  her  duty  is  to  visit  the  zenanas  and 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  Hindu  ladies  as  a 


248  IN  INDIA. 

friend,  a  missionary,  and  a  teacher.  Small,  dry,  flat, 
strong,  with  thin  lips,  with  eye-glasses  perched  upon 
her  aquiline  nose,  she  walks  the  deck  like  a  grena- 
dier, in  the  company  of  one  of  the  officers,  or  of 
Professor  M.,  from  the  University  of  Bombay.  At 
first  sight,  she  is  most  unattractive.  I  think  of 
those  great,  dark,  timid  eyes  of  the  Indian  women, 
of  their  silent  grace  and  gentleness.  One  perceives 
them  to  be  imaginative  and  impassioned,  sensuous 
and  dreamy.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  shock- 
ing to  the  Hindu  must  be  the  independence  and  the 
mannish  ways  of  the  Englishwoman. 

She  has  described  to  me  her  life  in  Jaipur.  She 
lives  with  another  lady  of  the  missions  in  a  comfort- 
able house  furnished  with  punkahs,  tatties,*  and  all 
English  comforts.  There  is  riding,  with  a  groom 
in  attendance,  accompanied  by  dogs,  and  there  is 
tennis-playing  with  the  English  residents.  Here  we 
have  an  English  Sister  of  Charity,  devoted,  like  our 
own,  to  a  religious  idea,  toward  which  all  the  acts  of 
her  life  converge,  but  preserving  the  exterior,  the 
habits,  the  tone,  of  an  Englishwoman  of  the  middle 
class,  the  wife  of  an  official  or  a  doctor.  Celibacy 
increases  her  freedom  of  action.  She  is  not  in  any 
way  secluded  from  the  world.  She  surrounds  her- 
self with  all  the  comforts  of  life.  Her  personality 
is  not  enfeebled  under  the  action  of  a  uniform  rule; 
on  the  contrary  she  has  an  individuality  which 
would  be  remarkable  in  any  woman.  You  feel  her 
to  be  mistress  of  herself,  and  entirely  secure ;  she 

*  The  tatty  is  a  machine  for  producing  a  vapor  of  perfumed  water 
in  order  to  cool  the  room. 


THE    VOYAGE.  249 

respects  herself,  and  is  able  to  make  herself  re- 
spected by  others.  "I  have  never,"  she  says,  "been 
insulted  by  any  Hindu ;  and  yet  I  often  go  out 
alone  on  horseback.  It  is  understood  that  I  am  a 
lady,  and  everyone  treats  me  as  such." 

She  has  had  a  Puritan  education,  without  superior 
instruction  and  without  broad  intelligence.  Narrow 
of  mind,  uncompromising,  destitute  of  the  sympa- 
thetic faculty— what  does  she  know  of  the  Hindu 
women  to  whom  she  has  consecrated  herself? 
What  does  she  understand  of  the  circumstances 
which  have  determined  the  condition  of  the  wife 
and  the  widow  in  India?  This  religion  which  she 
labors  with  all  her  strength  to  destroy,  "which  we 
must  eradicate  from  the  country,"  she  confuses  with 
all  the  religious  forms  which  are  not  her  Protestant 
Christianity:  "idolatry,"  the  one  word  suffices  to 
designate  it.  But  the  good  woman  is  full  of  her 
subject:  "We  want  to  make  these  poor  Hindu 
women  happier,  to  get  a  little  liberty  for  them,  to 
teach  them  to  think  for  themselves."  That  is  to 
say,  to  make  them  European  and  English.  She  is 
always  ready  to  talk  about  her  "missionary  work," 
her  hopes,  her  methods.  With  what  emotion  she 
quotes  the  words:  "Who  is  he,  Lord,  that  I  might 
believe  on  him?  I  that  speak  unto  thee,  am 
he."  A  text,  which,  she  says,  produced  a  great 
impression  upon  a  Musalman.  The  Hindu  toler- 
ance surprises  her;  it  saddens  her  also,  as  proving 
their  indifference.  No  husband  has  ever  forbidden 
her  visits  to  his  wives.  She  is  much  beloved  in  the 
zenanas.  "Come  and  see  us,"  the  Hindu  ladies  say 


25°  IN  INDIA. 

to  her,  "we  have  need  of  you.  Tell  us  about  this 
Jesus  of  whom  the  sahibs  talk  so  much."  They 
sing  hymns:  but,  after  all,  these  are  only  diversions 
from  the  monotony  of  imprisonment;  they  do  not 
dream  of  becoming  converted;  all  the  moral  and 
psychological  conditions  necessary  for  the  establish- 
ment among  them  of  a  faith  like  Miss  M.'s  are 
entirely  wanting.  It  would  require  generations,  and 
a  complete  charge  of  environment,  to  bring  this 
about.  One  of  them,  to  whom  Miss  M.  had  given 
two  dolls,  placed  them  at  the  foot  of  the  Krishna, 
and  bowed  before  them. 

Miss  M.  talks  religion  to  me;  she  lends  me  reli- 
gious books;  she  demonstrates  tome  the  "idolatry" 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  :  she  predicts  to  me  the 
future  extension  and  the  supremacy  of  Wesleyan 
Protestantism ;  she  speaks  with  pride  of  the  useful- 
ness and  grandeur  of  her  "work."  The  excellent, 
courageous  woman !  She  is  now  on  her  way  to 
Scotland  for  a  year's  rest,  after  seven  years  of  labor. 
Then  she  will  return  to  resume  the  harness  in  Jai- 
pur. When  she  becomes  too  old  for  service  the 
missionary  society  will  give  her  a  comfortable  pen- 
sion. Meanwhile,  alone,  she  leads  a  contented  life; 
her  existence  is  wholesome,  industrious,  and  worthy 
of  respect,  resting  upon  a  grand,  serious  idea.  She 
aids  in  spreading  civilization,  the  civilization  of 
England.  She  labors  for  the  ideal  which  her  race 
has  conceived.  Life  has  a  meaning  for  her.  It  is  a 
combat  with  evil.  When  her  last  hour  comes,  she 
will  fall  peacefully  asleep,  "and  God  will  gather  his 
servant  unto  him." 


THE  VOYAGE.  251 

JANUARY  2. 

It  is  a  strange  curiosity  this,  to  interest  one's 
self  in  the  differences  among  the  races  of  mankind, 
and  their  diverse  fashions  of  looking  at  the  world 
and  regarding  life,  when  one  has  the  constant  pres- 
ence of  this  great  monotonous  sea,  on  which  we 
have  been  borne  forward  for  now  eight  days.  After 
these  conversations,  perhaps  as  a  result  of  them,  one 
recurs  easily  to  the  Hindu  thought,  the  Brahmanic 
dream. 

At  seven  o'clock,  after  the  bath,  with  bare  feet  in 
yellow  grass  slippers,  you  saunter  upon  the  deck, 
now  just  washed  down.  A  fresh,  subtle  air  slips 
under  the  light  clothing  and  enfolds  you  deliciously. 
You  abandon  yourself  to  the  caress,  and  are  happy 
in  the  happiness  which  all  things  diffuse.  The 
spaces  of  sky  and  sea  are  full  of  a  calm,  broad  radi- 
ance :  the  vast  water  is  all  penetrated  with  light,  as 
with  a  great  deep  joy.  Surely  this  water  is  not  in- 
sensible ;  it  rejoices  or  it  is  sad,  as  the  sun  broods 
upon  it  or  deserts  it.  This  universal  motion,  this 
vague,  incessant  sound,  this  light  breath  which  stirs 
its  surface,  all  declare  it  alive.  It  is  a  great  divine 
being,  for  it  is  happy,  very  ancient,  the  simplest  of 
things ;  for  it  is  solitary,  and  its  presence  fills  the 
world.  Beyond  the  horizon,  far  in  the  south,  spread 
boundless,  following  the  curve  of  the  globe,  it  shines 
the  same,  tranquil  or  astir,  alone  under  the  sky, 
unseen.  No  eye  looks  upon  it ;  but  it  is  there. 
What  is  it,  then,  in  itself?  Perchance  a  great  ele- 
mental soul,  limited  to  the  world  of  feeling,  scarcely 
capable  of  revery,  traversed  by  emotions  very 


252  IN  INDIA. 

simple  and  very  obscure,  a  delight  in  being  alive, 
sadness,  anger,  depression,  affection,  desire,  effort. 

Close  by  the  ship  flame  little  green  wavelets :  a 
thousand  little  lives  play  on  the  surface  of  the  great 
solitary  being.  They  spring  from  it,  are  made  of  its 
substance.  They  rise,  expand,  quiver,  run,  whirl, 
sparkle;  and  are  no  more.  And  others  rise  in  mul- 
titudes, in  generations;  and  there  is  an  incessant 
shiver  of  coming  into  existence,  appearing,  and  dis- 
appearing, without  an  instant's  permanence,  since  at 
each  imperceptible  fraction  of  time,  each  little  mov- 
ing wavelet  is  composed  of  new  water,  so  that,  for 
the  few  moments  of  its  life,  nothing  in  it  is  perma- 
nent but  its  form.  And  yet,  notwithstanding  its 
nothingness,  each  is  a  distinct  little  individual,  tak- 
ing existence  in  its  own  way.  There  are  idle  ones, 
giddy  ones,  violent,  rebellious,  capricious  ones.  In 
front  there  is  a  bright  sparkle  of  merry  foam  ;  along 
the  ship's  side  a  rapid  running  of  murmuring  water; 
behind  it  there  are  placid  undulations  of  sinuous 
crystal,  smooth  surfaces  as  of  great  mirrors,  which 
writhe  slowly  and  noiselessly,  where  vague  orange 
gleams  shine,  twist,  and  disappear;  and  beneath  this 
moving  diversity  sleeps  the  dull  water  which  has 
never  risen  to  the  surface,  which  knows  not  what  it  is 
to  glitter  in  the  sunlight.  And  yet,  these  mornings, 
even  this  is  penetrated  all  through  with  light — an 
equal,  motionless  light,  not  disturbed  by  agitations 
of  shadows  like  that  of  the  quivering  surface.  And 
the  whole  ocean  throws  out  a  strong  and  gentle 
radiance  which  comes  from  its  great  inner  spaces. 

Overhead,  the  sky  is  very  pale,  whitish,  with  a 


THE    VOYAGE.  253 

lustre  of  molten  opal.  A  peaceful  troop  of  little 
clouds  is  moving  across  it  very  slowly.  By  degrees 
the  space  grows  empty,  the  universal  light  traverses 
it,  dwells  in  it,  and  fills  it.  Sometimes  you  feel  pass- 
ing over  yourself,  like  a  vague  sadness,  the  shadow 
of  the  little  mists  that  glide  across  the  sun.  No 
other  event.  Thought  has  put  an  end  to  itself;  and 
so  you  forget  that  you  are,  and  return  into  the 
quietude  of  that  which  is  enduring,  which  never 
changes. 

PORT  SAID,  January  7. 

After  the  Hindu  East,  this  Egyptian  East  is  a 
very  poor  thing.  Where  are  the  bare  bronzed  skins 
of  the  swarming  crowd  under  the  Indian  sun  ?  These 
people  are  too  much  clad,  too  much  covered  up,  in 
their  green  petticoats. 

Ugly,  regular  streets  laid  out  at  right  angles, 
bordered  with  square  shop-fronts  covered  with 
placards.  An  unpleasant  odor  rises  from  the  brown 
sand  underfoot.  Cafes-concerts ^  shops  of  vile  pho- 
tographs, dry-goods  establishments,  succeed  one 
another.  A  population  of  villainous  Levantines. 
The  place  is  a  cosmopolitan  hotel,  where  all  ships 
set  ashore  their  passengers ;  and  it  is  abundantly 
supplied  with  all  those  pleasures  which  the  sailor 
may  desire  after  long  voyages.  There  is  nothing  so 
sad  and  so  unsightly  as  these  hackneyed  cross-roads 
which  have  no  existence  of  their  own,  and  only  live 
by  the  continuous  passage  of  strangers  in  search  of 
amusement.  There  is  nothing  here  but  a  little  Euro- 
pean scum  flung  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  desert, 
in  which  all  the  streets  come  to  an  end  so  strangely. 


254  IN  INDIA. 

At  the  very  extremity  of  the  town,  in  the  Arab 
quarter,  we  go  to  see  some  dancing-girls  from  Upper 
Egypt.  Tobacco  smoke,  torn  into  bluish  clouds, 
envelops  in  a  low,  close  hall  a  curious  crowd  of 
various  nationalities:  Arabs,  negroes,  Europeans, 
Copts.  An  Abyssinian  woman,  a  kind  of  Hottentot 
Venus,  whose  stout  brown  figure  shows  through  the 
transparency  of  her  white  garment,  advances  on 
tiptoe,  with  a  negro  smile,  following  the  incompre- 
hensible rhythm  of  the  music.  Suddenly  she  stops, 
entirely  motionless.  Then  a  horrible  thing,  inde- 
scribable :  slowly  her  back  begins  to  shiver  under  her 
white  garment,  trembles,  is  agitated  by  successive 
shocks,  vibrates  strangely;  then,  with  writhings  of 
the  hips,  sinking  to  the  ground,  half-rising,  she 
sways  to  and  fro,  like  some  creeping  beast  that  has 
been  wounded  and  is  about  to  die. 

Then  appears  upon  the  scene,  with  unnoticed  en- 
trance, a  very  young  Arab  girl.  A  strange,  cold 
smile  upon  her  haughty  lips,  her  eyes  half-closed, 
slowly  and  disdainfully  throwing  back  her  head,  her 
slender  young  figure  rigid,  the  chest  advanced,  she 
stretches  out  both  arms,  all  the  fingers  quivering. 
Meanwhile,  noiselessly,  with  a  rapidity  of  sinuous 
motion  that  is  like  a  snake,  a  third  spins  around  the 
hall,  describing  complicated  circles.  Closely  draped 
in  red  velvet,  her  black  hair  drawn  tightly  around 
her  flat  head,  her  outlines  angular  and  precise,  the 
body  very  long,  impassive,  with  sphinxlike  smile, 
she  has  the  figure,  the  aspect,  the  features  of  the  old 
Egyptian  drawings.  Throwing  herself  to  the  left 
with  an  abrupt  jerk  of  the  hips,  throwing  herself  to 


THE    VOYAGE.  255 

the  right,  monotonously  she  glides  in  circles  with 
ever-increasing  rapidity;  a  sombre  being  whose 
silence  and  gravity  are  enigmatical ;  sometimes  stop- 
ping suddenly,  while  something  like  a  slow  spasm 
runs  over  her  whole  figure,  then  moving  forward,  in  a 
kind  of  magic  circle  around  the  two  almehs.  At 
last,  in  the  stupor  which  the  monotony  of  Oriental 
music  causes,  you  cease  to  distinguish  the  three 
dancing  figures;  you  only  see  the  endless  intricacy 
of  lines,  which  they  describe,  yourself  hypnotized, 
as  at  sight  of  a  long-continued  juggling  with  glitter- 
ing balls. 

Next  door,  a  cafe  chantant.  Seated  in  rows  upon 
cushions,  cross-legged,  the  musicians  are  scraping 
on  their  strings,  swaying  backward  and  forward  to 
the  rhythm.  One  of  them  I  notice :  he  has  the 
strange,  gentle,  sleepy  eyes  of  the  dreamer,  and  a 
faint,  unchanging  smile.  I  feel  that  he  could  sit 
there  all  night,  smiling  always  and  drawing  from  his 
cithar  the  same  eternal  Oriental  phrase. 

Upon  a  platform  three  women  are  seated.  In  the 
centre,  a  fat  and  slatternly  Syrian,  with  banged  hair. 
At  the  right,  a  Copt,  in  a  shabby  dark  garment, 
loaded  with  brass  necklaces,  feeble-looking  and 
depressed,  in  an  attitude  of  inexpressible  fatigue 
and  sadness.  At  the  left,  a  very  young  Arab  girl, 
slender,  wrapped  tightly  in  her  white  drapery,  ex- 
tremely erect,  her  long-fringed  eyelids  cast  down, 
an  air  at  once  imperious  and  savage.  At  certain 
cadences  in  the  chant  which  the  cithars  are  repeat- 
ing, her  voice  is  heard,  her  whole  figure  grows 
more  erect  still,  it  stiffens,  and  there  is  an  almost  im- 


256  IN  INDIA. 

perceptible  shiver  from  head  to  foot ;  the  thin  nos- 
trils dilate,  and  even  the  finger-tips  vibrate.  In  this 
frail  form,  as  in  the  chant,  there  is  harshness,  there 
is  sensuousness,  and  most  of  all,  unutterable  pride. 
And  an  hour  long  this  music  trembles,  complicated 
and  childish,  without  recognizable  motif,  made  of 
subtle  discords,  quarter-tones,  that  could  not  be 
written  out.  After  twenty  minutes  of  it,  you  feel 
its  strange,  sad,  sensuous  charm.  It  is  absorbing 
and  monotonous,  like  those  Saracenic  designs  and 
mosaics  in  whose  complex  and  infinite  interlacing 
you  lose  yourself;  like  those  dances  of  almehs  whose 
slow  entanglements  and  undulations  the  Orientals 
can  follow  through  a  whole  night.  It  is  like  the 
intoxication  of  opium  or  of  hashish ;  and  one  could 
stay  for  hours,  spellbound  by  the  succession  of 
chants  and  the  slender  music,  following,  as  in  a  con- 
fused dream,  the  sudden  growing  erect  and  shiver- 
ing of  the  Arab  figure. 

There  is  no  spectacle,  no  book,  no  study,  which 
brings  you  so  abruptly  and  so  far  into  the  soul  of  a 
stranger  race,  as  do  ten  notes  of  its  music.  Noth- 
ing gives  so  fully  the  sensation  of  the  distance 
which  separates  us  from  them.  A  Musalman  chant, 
heard  suddenly,  in  the  evening,  as  you  pass  by  a 
mosque;  a  Buddhist  chime,  flinging  out  its  call  in 
the  abrupt  twilight,  in  the  depths  of  an  amazing 
Cinhalese  forest,  where  the  serried  trunks  of  the 
cocoanut-palms  mirror  themselves  in  the  red  water 
of  stagnant  ponds;  Hindu  gongs, heathen  trumpets, 
vibrating  upon  the  high  terraces  of  Benares,  as  the 
sun  Is  sinking  beyond  the  roseate  Ganges:  all  these 


THE    VOYAGE.  257 

are  sudden  openings,  they  are  abrupt  flashes,  which 
for  an  instant  throw  a  strong  light  and  reveal  every- 
thing. In  recollections  of  these  are  summed  up,  are 
fused,  all  the  sensations  of  a  journey.  And  here, 
one  feels  the  Arab  life,  the  encampments  and  the 
marches  of  ancestors  in  the  silence  and  monotony  of 
the  desert,  and  the  Semitic  soul,  dominant,  traversed 
by  sudden  shocks  and  by  impulses  of  violent  will. 

JANUARY  11. 

Yesterday  evening,  about  ten  o'clock,  we  came 
into  bad  weather.  All  night  long,  tossing  in  my 
berth,  I  hear  the  uproar  of  the  black  water  outside, 
and  of  objects  pitching  about  within.  At  last  it 
benumbs  and  stupefies  one,  this  tumult  which  enters 
one's  dreams;  and  with  eyes  open,  in  an  odd  condi- 
tion of  somnolence,  one  submits,  like  an  inert  thing, 
to  the  action  of  the  tremendous  power  which  is  at 
work  in  the  darkness. 

At  daylight  the  air  has  grown  cold  and  we  shiver. 
We  are  off  Crete.  A  sea  tumultuous  and  livid  like 
the  sky;  ragged  clouds  hanging  low,  waves  rising 
from  the  deep,  mingle,  rush,  fly,  in  a  gray  fog,  a  salt 
vapor,  with  a  clamor  of  wind  and  water.  And  all 
day  long  the  ship  falls,  falls  into  black  valleys ;  rises 
staggering  under  a  mass  of  blue-green  dripping 
foam ;  gets  above  the  horizon,  which  has  lost  its 
level,  above  the  great  circle  of  pallid  sea,  which 
oscillates  upon  the  wan  sky  as  if  shaken  in  its  very 
depths. 

In  the  evening  there  is  a  little  peace  overhead, 
but  the  heavy  seas  are  running  as  madly  as  ever. 


258  IN  INDIA. 

In  the  distance  crests  of  waves  shine,  like  whitish 
lightning,  upon  the  gray  tumult  of  the  water. 

A  northern  twilight,  interminable  and  cold :  a  red 
bar,  a  gleam  fixed  in  the  horizon,  which  lingers 
there  sadly  for  hours,  which  seems  as  if  it  would 
never  disappear,  and  toward  which  we  advance 
steadily.  A  sad  return  into  sombre  Europe ! 


THE  END. 


INDEX 


INDEX. 


Aden,  4-6 

Agra,  Mogul  capital,   162;  Tomb 

of  Akbar,  162-64;  citadel,  164- 

68;  Taj,  168-73 
Akbar,    Mogul    emperor,    Musal- 

man,    162  ;  his  tomb,    162-64  ', 

his  palace,  164-68 
Allahabad,  its  worship  of  snakes, 

92 
Almehs,   Egyptian,  at  Port   Said, 

253-55 

Amiel,  a  Hindu  mind,  135,  136 
Animals,    Hindu  worship  of,   90, 

92,  104,  105,  142,  153,  176 
Arab  dancing-girls,  254-56 
Architecture,    Cinhalese,    21,    22; 

Hindu, 77-79,  144, 145, 182-84, 

203,    228-31  ;    Musalman,    81, 

155,  163-73,  186 
Aurungzebe,  177 
Autonomy  of  India,  possible,   17, 

66,  99,  157,  158 

B 

Babus  (native  merchants),  55,  95, 

107,  108,  195,  213 
Bayaderes,  at  Pondichery,  48 
Benares,  sacred  city  of  Brahman- 
ism,  73-75;  first  impressions  of, 
75 1  76;  scenes  by  the  river  in  the 


morning,  77-81,  138-40;  palace 
of  the  Maharajah,  103,  104;  tem- 
ple of  the  monkeys,  104,  105; 
the  University,  105,  106;  shop, 
107,  108;  dancing-girls,  108-10; 
street  scenes,  140,  141;  temple 
of  Siva,  141-43  ;  last  look  at, 

153,  154 

Bengalis,  appearance  and  charac- 
ter of,  52-54 

Bindrabund,  sacred  city,  abound- 
ing in  monkeys,  182;  temples  in 
honor  of  Krishna,  182-84 

Bo,  the  sacred  tree  of  Ceylon,  22 

Bombay,  cosmopolitan  city,  214, 
215,  217,  218;  atmospheric  ef- 
fects, 216,  217,  223  ;  street 
scenes,  217-20;  hospital  for  ani- 
mals, 220  ;  English  placards, 
220,  221;  Salvation  Army,  221, 
222;  Parsi  worship,  223;  Parsi 
cemetery,  224,  225 ;  point  of  de- 
parture for  Europe,  240 

Brahma  and  Brahma,  117,  125-27, 

235 

Brahmanism,  its  ceremonials,  77, 
78,  82-89, 138-43;  theology,  89- 
93,  146-52;  ethics,  93-98;  vision 
of  the  world  and  of  life,  114-38, 
143-46 

Brahmans,  highest  caste  of  Hindus, 
73,  75,  82-89,  90,  114 


261 


262 


INDEX. 


Brahmo-Somaj,  new  sect  of 
"  Young  Bengal,"  151,  208,  209 

Buddha  (Gautama),  Sakya-Muni, 
statues  of,  in  Ceylon,  22,  23,  31, 
32;  a  Brahman  of  Benares,  74; 
his  statues  in  cave  temples  of 
Ellora,  237-39 

Buddhism  in  Ceylon;  its  ceremo- 
nial, monasteries,  characteristic 
features,  21-26,  29-38;  in  India, 
its  date  unknown,  137;  absorbed 
by  Hinduism,  151,  152;  perpet- 
uated in  the  caves  of  Ellora, 
237,  238 


Calcutta,  arrival  at,  52;  first  im- 
pressions of,  52-54 

Caste  system  of  India,  90 

Cemetery,  English,  at  Lucknow, 
156;  Parsi,  at  Bombay,  224,  225 

Ceylon,  approach  to,  u;  first  im- 
pressions, 12-16;  aspect  of  the 
country,  12,  15,  16,  18-21 

Cheddy  Lai,  the  Sudra  "boy," 
159-61,  187;  his  opinions  of  the 
English,  160,  161,  210;  of  the 
Salvation  Army  and  the  mission- 
aries, 222 

Chunder  Dutt,  converted  babu, 
196,  197 

Cinhalese,  their  appearance  and 
character,  12,  15,  16,  18,  28,  29 

D 

Darjiling,  arrival  at,  62;  English 
character  of  the  place,  62-67,  72 

Delhi,  a  great  capital,  its  fortress, 
185,  186;  its  mosque,  186;  its 
shawl  merchants,  187-89 


Dupleix,  statue  of.at  Pondichery,4g 
Durga,  a  Hindu  divinity,  80,  91,  92 


Elephants,  20,  28,  202,  203 
Ellora,  cave  temples  of,  227-39 
English  authors  studied  in  India, 
98,  99,  106,  207,  208,  209; 
English  conviction  of  duty 
toward  India,  65-67,  157,  158, 
195,  249;  English  influence,  ef- 
fects of,  in  Ceylon,  17,  18;  and 
in  India,  66,  67,  195,  197;  Eng- 
lish judges  in  India,  their  im- 
partiality, 160;  English  life  and 
manners  transplanted  into  India, 
52,  53,  62-67;  English  officers, 
met  on  shipboard,  241-47;  Eng- 
lish soldiers  in  India,  65,  161, 
193,  194;  Englishwoman,  a  mis- 
sionary, met  on  shipboard,  247- 
50 

G 

Ganesa,  Hindu  divinity,  76,  80, 
88,  91,  140,  141,  203,  213 

Ganges,  the  river,  below  Calcutta 
(the  Hoogly),  49-52;  at  Benares, 
77-80,  138-40,  153,  154;  an  ob- 
ject of  worship,  83,  88;  "the 
divine  Mother,"  89;  an  image  of 
Hinduism,  152 

H 

Himalayas,  the,  first  sight  of,  36, 
57  ;  backbone  of  the  earth,  58, 
59 ;  forests  of,  59,  60  ;  mixed 
population  of  the  foot-hills,  59, 
60,  6 1  ;  change  of  temperature 
on  approaching,  60 ;  seen  from 
Darjiling,  6l,  62,  67,  68,  71,  72 


INDEX. 


263 


Hinduism,  a  development  of  Brah- 
manism,  146 ;  its  complicated 
character,  146-52 

Hindus,  their  peculiar  ethics,  93- 
98;  their  souls  a  mystery  to  us, 
98-101  ;  their  relations  to  the 
European  races,  102,  103  ;  the 
nautch  their  greatest  pleasure, 
in,  112  ;  peculiarities  of  their 
mental  organization,  137,  145 


Indra,  Vedic  divinity,  his  statues 
in  cave  temples  of  Ellora,  227 

Instruction  in  India,  98,  99,  105, 
206-09 

J 

Jahan,  Shah,  builder  of  the  Taj, 
168 

Jains,  Hindu  Buddhists,  their 
sanctuaries  in  the  caves  of 
Ellora,  228,  237 

Jaipur,  capital  of  Rajputana,  198  ; 
street  scenes,  199-203  ;  build- 
ings, 203  ;  tiger  cage,  204  ;  tem- 
ple of  Siva,  205,  206  ;  college, 
206-09  ;  scenic  effect,  209 

Jews,  at  Aden,  4 

Jumna,  the  river,  "  the  divine 
Mother,"  89  ;  at  Agra,  164  ; 
scenes  on  its  banks,  180-82 

K 

Kailas,  the  Himalayan  paradise  of 
Siva,  75,  96;  the  great  temple 
of  the  caves  of  Ellora,  228-31 

Kali,  Hindu  goddess,  76,  90,  91, 
96,  97,  208 


Kandy,  ancient  capital  of  Ceylon, 
21-30 

Kasi,  name  for  Benares,  74,  75 

Kelanya  Ganga,  river  of  Ceylon,  19 

Krishna,  incarnation  of  Vishnu, 
149 ;  specially  worshipped  at 
Muttra,  176;  "the  blue  god," 
divinity  of  the  pre-Aryan  inhab- 
itants of  India,  177  ;  story  of  his 
life,  177-79;  poem  concerning 
him,  179-80  ;  his  temple  at  Bin- 
drabund,  182,  183,  197 

Kshatriyas,  warrior  caste  of  Hin- 
dus, 103,  128,  198,  202,  213 

Kunchain-Junga,  a  peak  of  the 
Himalayas,  61,  62  ;  seen  at  sun- 
rise, 67,  68 

Kutab-Minar,  tower  near  Delhi, 
189-91 


Lama's     temple     near    Darjiling, 

65,  70,  7i 
Lawrence,   General   Henry,   tomb 

of,  at  Cawnpur,  156 
Lucknow,    a    Muhammedan    and 

English    city,    155  ;    siege    of, 

156,   243 

M 

Madhava,    Hindu     author    (four- 
teenth century),  149 
Malabar  Hill,  223-25 
Maya,  the  goddess,  127,  131,  197 
Meditations,  the  five  Buddhist,  24, 

25 
Missionary,   Wesleyan,  to  Jaipur, 

247-50 

Monastery,   Buddhist,   in   Kandy, 
21-26 


264 


INDEX. 


Mongol  types  in  Northern  India, 
57,  58,  60,  61 

Monkeys,  104,  105,  192 

Monks,  Buddhist,  their  rules  of 
life,  23-26 

Mosques :  in  Benares,  81  ;  in 
Lucknow,  155  ;  in  Delhi,  186, 
190,  191 

Mumtaz-i-Mahal,  her  tomb,  the 
Taj,  168,  169 

Music,  Oriental,  its  strange  char- 
acter, 256,  257 

N 

Nana  Sahib,  112,  156 
Nautch,  the,  110-12 
Negroes,  at  Aden,  4,  5 


Pantheism,  Hindu,  122-30 
Parsis  in  Bombay,  215,  216,  223 
Parvati,    Hindu  goddess,   wife  of 

Siva,  91,  206,  232 
Peacocks,  blue,  190,  192,  210,  211 
Peradinya  Gardens,  39-41 
Perusha,  93 

Pictures,  two  Hindu,  114-22 
Pondichery,  arrival  at,  44  ;  French 
element  in,  44-46,  49  ;  aspect  of, 
46  ;  statue  of  Dupleix  in,  49 

R 

Railways  in  Ceylon,  18,  19  ;  in 
India,  55,  157-59,  *95,  213, 
214,  226 

Rainfall  of  Northern  India,  58 
Rajputs,  very  ancient  Aryan  peo- 
ple, 198 


Rama, incarnation  of  Vishnu, 96, 149 
Rig-Veda,  85 

S 

Saktists,  a  Hindu  sect,  97,  98 
Sakya-Muni  (Gautama),  see  Buddha 
Salvation  Army  in  India,  221,  222 
Samunda,  Hindu  goddess,  91 
Sanskrit,  98,  105,  207 
Scots  Greys,  in  India,  155,  193,  194 
Sepoys,  95,  96,  104,  215 
Shawl  merchants  of  Delhi,  187-89 
Shelley,  a  Hindu  mind,  133-35 
Shipboard,  life  on,  i-io,  44,  49- 

52,  240-53,  257 
Sikkim,  the,  63,  68,  72 
Siliguri,  57 
Siva,  Hindu  god,   80,   88,   90,  91, 

94,  95,  97,   104,    128,   141,  143, 

147,  148,  219,  220,  227,  228-39 
Soldiers,  English,  at  Aden,  4  ;  in 

India,  65,  155,  161,  163,  193 
Sudra,    low  caste  of  Hindus,  77, 

90,  102,  160,  213 
Surya,  Hindu  god,  88,  124,  227 


Taj,  the,  tomb  of  Mumtaz-i-Mahal, 
168-73 

Tavernier,  French  traveller  in  In- 
dia (1641),  177 

Tea-planters  in  Ceylon,  41,  42 

Temples  :  Buddhist  in  Kandy,  21, 
22,  31,  32,  37,  38  ;  Hindu,  at 
Villianur,  47-49;  Lama's,  at  Dar- 
jiling,  70,  71 ;  in  Benares,  79, 
104,  141-43  ;  at  Muttra,  177;  in 
Bindrabund,  182,  183  ;  in  Jai- 
pur, 205,  206  ;  in  caves  of  El- 
lora,  227-32,  237-39 


INDEX. 


265 


Tigers,  caged,  in  Jaipur,  204 
Trichinopoli,  pagodas  of,  48,  177 

U 

Upanishads,  the,  85,  105  ;  extracts 
from,  115-22  ;  meaning  of  the 
word,  118,  note;  singular  char- 
acter of,  137  ;  contain  much 
modern  thought,  208 

V 

Vedas,  the,  123,  124,  128 
Vegetation,    tropical  :   of    Ceylon, 

n,    12,   15,   16,   18-21,    26-30  ; 

39-42;   of  India,  50,  59,  68,  214 


Villages,  their  organization  in  In- 
dia,    174  ;    picturesque    aspect, 

174,  175 

Villianur,  pagoda  of,  47-49 
Vishnu,  Hindu  god,  84,  86-89,  9T> 

95,  126,  128,  147-50,   176,   219, 

227 

W 

Wales,  the    Prince  of,  in  Ceylon, 
26  ;  his  portrait  in  Benares,  103 


Zenanas,  no,  247,  249 
Zend-Avesta,  quoted,  224,  225 


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"  Happily  imagined  and  neatly  worked  out ;  .  .  .  a  high  order  of  work." — 
New  York  Times. 

THE  TIME   MACHINE. 

By  H.  G.  WELLS,  author  of  "  The  Wonderful  Visit." 

"  It  is  seldom  that  any  essay  of  the  kind  shows  the  originality,  the  imagination, 
ind  the  excellent  workmanship  of  this  story;  .  .  .  singularly  graphic  and  unfail- 
.ngly  interesting."—  Atlantic  Monthly. 

His  theory  of  the  decline  of  man  and  the  old  age  of  the  world  is  extremely  strong 
and  original ;  .  .  .  the  attention  flags  never  a  moment." — The  Churchman. 

"Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  whose  ingenious  'Time  Machine'  attracted  so  much  atten- 
:ion."—  The  Critic. 

"  No  synopsis  can  give  an  idea  of  its  graphic  and  peculiar  power."—  N.  Y.  Com- 
mercial Advertiser. 

SIXTH   EDITION   OF 

THE  WAYS  OF  YALE. 

Sketches  mainly  humorous.     By  H.  A.  BEERS. 

"  Yale  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  having  such  a  writer  on  her  campus.  So 
many  rankly  unjust  and  superficial  books  have  been  written  on  Yale  ways  that  such 
i  book  as  the  present  one  is  a  refreshing  innovation." — Yale  Literary  News. 

"There  is  only  one  fault  to  find,  and  that  is  there  is  not  enough  of  it."— New 
York  Times. 

SECOND    EDITION   OF 

JACK   O'DOON. 

A  Romance  of  the  North  Carolina  Coast.     By  MARIA  BEALE. 

"  There  is  a  maturity  of  conception,  an  accuracy  of  artistic  perception,  not  often 
noticed  in  an  author's  first  novel.  .  .  .  The  landscapes  are  as  faithfully  definite  as 
iny  artist  could  make  them.  .  .  .  There  is  a  great  deal  of  vigor  in  the  character- 
ization, and  no  little  humor,  while  the  conversation  is  straightforward  and  natural. 
.  .  .  Too  much  praise  can  hardly  be  given  to  the  management  of  ihe  tragic  close  of 
the  book;  .  .  .  very  carefully  as  well  as  finely  related  ;  .  .  .  the  tale  ends  precisely 
where  it  should,  and  this  is  not  one  of  the  least  of  the  several  excellences  of  this 
ielightful  story." — Boston  Transcript. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  29  West  23d  Street,  N.  Y. 


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V.  The  Catholic  Reaction.    2  vols. 

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portrait.  12mo- 

Cory's  (William)  Guide  to  Modern  English  History.  Part  I.,  1815- 
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TENEMENT  TALES  OF  NEW  YORK. 

Stories  of  our  Cosmopolitan  Poor.     By  J.  W.  SULLIVAN. 

"Each  picture  has  the  accuracy  of  a  photograph,  but  something-  else  which  cold 
photography  cannot  give — color,  poetical  charm,  and  the  beauty  that  comes  from 
things  that  are  suggested  rather  than  described.  From  among  these  eight  stories, 
not  one  that  is  of  inferior  merit  could  be  chosen."—^.  Y.  Times. 

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pictures  of  Cockney  life  is  their  unlikeness  to  the  sketches  of  Dickens  or  any  of  the 
other  countless  writers  who  have  graphically  treated  of  the  same  subject.  They  are 
wholly  original,  .  .  .  the  touch,  the  manner  is  delightfully  new."- -N.  Y.  Times. 

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or  wearisome  detail  .  .  .  a  keen,  observant  faculty,  a  vivid  power  of  characterization, 
a  fine  sense  of  humor  .  .  .  brings  into  play  some  of  our  deepest  emotions  .  .  . 
stirs  in  your  blood  and  imparts  that  touch  of  wonder  or  of  thrill,  as  the  author  of 
Mnrcella  would  say,  which  transforms  the  ordinary  into  the  extraordinary  .  .  . 
show  the  hand  of  a  master."—  The  Bookman. 

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29  WEST  230  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


"Should  find  a  place  in  every  college  and  public  library."— BOSTON  TRANSCRIPT. 

KERNER'S  NATURAL  HISTORY 
OF  PLANTS. 

Translated  by  Professor  F.  W.  OLIVER,  of  University  College, 
London.  A  work  for  reference  or  continuous  reading,  at  once 
popular  and,  in  the  modern  sense,  thoroughly  scientific.  With 
16  colored  plates  and  1000  wood  engravings.  Four  parts.  410. 
Cloth.  $is.oo»<?/. 

The  Nation:  "  The  author  evidently  planned  at  the  outset  to  take  every  attractive 
teature  of  plants  o£  all  grades,  and  place  these  attractive  features  in  the  very  best  light. 
For  this  purpose  he  has  skillfully  employed  a  brilliant  style  of  exposition,  and  he  has  nut 
hesitated  to  use  illustrations  in  black  and  in  color  with  the  freest  hand.  The  purpose  has 
been  attained.  He  has  succeeded  in  constructing  a  popular  work  on  the  phenomena  of 
vegetation  which  is  practically  without  any  rival.  The  German  edition  has  been  accepted 
from  the  first  as  a  useful  treatise  for  the  instruction  of  the  public  ;  in  fact,  some  of  its  illus- 
trations have  been  taken  bodily  from  the  volumes  by  museum  curators,  to  enrich  exhibi- 
tion cases  designed  for  the  people.  With  two  exceptions,  the  full-page  colored  plates 
leave  little  to  be  desired,  and  might  well  find  a  place  tn  every  public  museum  in  which 
botany  has  a  share.  Most  o£  the  minor  engravings  are  unexceptionable.  They  are  clear, 
and  almost  wholly  free  from  distracting  details  which  render  worthless  so  many  illustra- 
tions in  popular  works  on  natural  history.  Professor  Kerner's  style  in  German  is  seldom, 
obscure — it  is  what  one  might  fairly  call  easy  r«ading  ;  but  it^is  no  disparagement  to  him 
and  his  style  tostate  that  the  translation  is  clearer  than  the  original  throughout.  .  .  In  the 
first  two  issues  the  author  was  engaged  chiefly  with  thestudy  of  the  structure  of  the  plant, 
and  its  adaptation  to  its  surroundings.  In  this  concluding  volume  he  considers  the  plant 
from  the  point  of  view  of  its  relation  toothers.  Therefore  he  begins  with  a  full  and  ab- 
sorbingly interesting  account  of  reproduction  in  the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  then  passes  to 
an  examination  of  species.  .  .  With  this  book,  there  is  no  excuse  for  even  busy  people  to 
be  ignorant  of  how  the  other  half,  the  plant-half,  lives." 

Botanical  Gazette  :  "  Kerner's  work  in  English  will  do  much  toward  bringing  modern 
botany  before  the  intelligent  public.  We  need  more  of  this  kind  of  teaching  that  will 
bring  those  not  professionally  interested  in  botany  to  some  realization  of  its  scope  and 
greatinterest." 

Professor  J,  E.  Humphrey  :  "  It  ought  to  sell  largely  here  to  colleges  and  public  libra- 
ries, as  well  as  to  individuals,  and  lean  heartily  commend  it." 

John  M,  Macfarlane,  Professor  in  University  of  Pennsylvania  :  "  It  is  a  work  that 
deserves  a  wide  circulation." 

Professor  John  M.  Coulter  in  The  Dial :  "  It  is  such  books  as  this  that  will  bring 
botany  fairly  before  the  public  as  a  subject  of  absorbing  interest ;  that  will  illuminate  the 
botanical  lecture-room  ;  that  will  convert  the  Gradgrind  of  our  modern  laboratory  into  a 
student  of  nature." 

New  York  Times  :  "  A  magnificent  work,  with  its  careful  text  and  superb  illustrations. 
The  whole  procesaof  plant  life  is  explained,  and  all  the  wonders  of  it." 

The  Critic:  "  In  wonderfully  accurate  but  easily  comprehended  descriptions,  it  opens 
to  the  ordinary  reader  the  results  of  botanical  research  down  to  the  present  time. 

The  Outlook  :  ".  .  .  For  the  first  time  we  have  in  the  English  language  a  great  work 
upon  the  living  plant,  profound,  in  a  sense  exhaustive,  thoroughly  reliable,  but  in  language 
simple  and  beautiful  enough  to  attract  a  child.  .  .  The  plates  are  most  of  them  of  unusual 
beauty.  Author,  translator,  illustrators,  publishers,  have  united  to  make  the  work  a 
success." 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO,,  29  West  23d  Street,  New  York, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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